BRANSON, Mo. — I can scarcely wrap my mind around the events of the last two days. I’ve been privileged to participate in a retreat sponsored by Fight Colorectal Cancer for the 2023 Class of Fight CRC Ambassadors.
I am one of those ambassadors.
This weekend has been an opportunity to meet my fellow ambassadors from around the country, connect with Fight CRC staff members, and share our stories through photos, video and art.
The art part was especially affecting.
I use the word a lot, but it was truly sacred.
We experienced a SCARt class, where we created art using our scars. Whether external from surgeries or accidents, or internal from psychological trauma, the experience of creating art from something some might consider ugly was one of those experiences that helps define your life’s journey.
The experience started before today’s facilitated session with homework: take photos of your physical scars, then draw them. There was more, focused on body dysmorphia and other aspects, which set the stage for today.
I had not looked at my colectomy scar since my surgery 10 years ago. Had no cause to look at it as it is located on the bottom of my belly, under my stoma.
I won’t share the photo I took, but it has the look of a railroad bed. I can still see the tracks where the staples were.
My stoma is a scar, as is the slash on my left bicep, an accident of teenager-hood wherein I was helping my mom install a window air conditioner and she dropped her end when the phone rang. The raw aluminum edge sliced through my arm. And, there’s my newest scar, on my neck from this past summer’s parathyroid surgery.
In the facilitated session we were given canvasses, our choice of colors, and a small pot of ”mud” to re-create our scar drawings, then give them texture.
As I was drawing my scars, I saw a collection of islands. Small land masses surrounded by water. The beach, the ocean, probably a lighthouse somewhere, although I didn’t get into that level of detail.
I wanted to add the phrase ”here there be monsters,” which you sometimes see on ancient ocean maps. In my world, an arrow would point to the monsters off the map. There be monsters, but you cannot see them.
Besides, cancer is monster enough.
One by one, each of us shared our paintings. Where the scars came from. The vision we created. Why we chose the colors we used. Our stories on canvas.
I shared the basics of my cancer journey, and then how because of treatment we missed things like going on vacation for two years.
Then, how, in the between time from ending my my working career with the American Cancer Society Cancer Action Network and moving to the Knox County Health Department Sarah planned a trip for us to Daufuskie Island, South Carolina.
Paradise with golf carts and some of the best seafood I’ve ever put in my mouth. Beach, ocean, and the occasional alligator.
“We love to escape to the beach,” I said. Most often, St. Simons Island, Ga.
I have written before that water is sacred. Here in Branson, the retreat house has a beautiful view of Table Rock Lake. We were standing on sacred ground.
All the more so as we, one by one, shared our art.
Nods of recognition of shared experiences.
Tears.
Grief.
Anger.
Confusion.
Laughter.
Smiles.
Hugs.
One by one we shared our stories, each one knitting together our hearts. This group of strangers now a family.
As I turned my painting around, I said, “these are my islands.”
As I looked out at the group, I saw my islands.
Refuge among fellow travelers.
My islands of hope.
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