By Ro Wan

Hello, scar. I have hated and detested you for years and years. You dominated my abdomen, deeply etched into my flesh downwards from my belly button. You distorted the natural curvature of my belly making it look like a second bum!

Back then, I had no voice when the lordly obstetrician briefly tapped my hand and said that baby would come when it was time. It was already 16 days past his time, I wanted to shout. But I whispered it.
“I will see you mam, when I come back,” he said as he hurried off for the weekend.

Within hours, baby was kicking and stretching my flesh – a ‘footballer’ said one midwife. But I knew, I knew something was amiss. I found my voice. Another midwife began to press my belly searching for the heartbeat – up, down, right and left, pressing deeper and deeper with a sense of urgency.

Within twenty minutes we make it to theatre, my body shaking uncontrollably, gulping oxygen into the umbilical cord of my struggling baby. No time for nice neat horizontal operating lines in the folds of my abdomen. The quickest cut was right down the middle.

Over the years, scar, as your redness faded into a more silvery line, I began to accept you. You were my son’s emergency exit from an oxygen-deprived womb.
A womb that could have become his tomb.
Scar, though I hated you, I can now place my hands on you and remember how lucky I am to have given birth to my son through your silvery line.