I have some interesting scar action happening on my stomach these days. Even with the hair growing back, they are rather prominent. A few days ago, Lisa and I went to a local health club’s pool to meet some friends. It’s the place where Michael Phelps trained most of his life and still teaches classes. I’m still not allowed to submerge the takedown incision underwater, so I can’t swim for a few more weeks. I didn’t have a swimsuit on, but I could have take my shirt off and laid on the fake sandy beach area. As I watched the swimmers doing their thing, I remembered my scars.

Other than the medical folks and Lisa, the scars have yet to be seen. make their public debut. A few minutes ago, I held my scanner up to my stomach and tried to scan them. My advice is to never try something like that, ever. Unless you’re Andy Warhol and your scanner is named Richard Avedon.

I did a Facebook post a few weeks ago about scars trumping tattoos, which started a brief discussion about people’s reactions to seeing pronounced scarification. Several people talked about embracing them as a badge of honor: “Have you been in the shit? Yes, I have.” And then it lead naturally to mentioning the infamous Scar Competition scene in “Jaws” between Quint and Hooper. (Note: The video clip cuts before Quint’s USS Indianapolis monologue, which I think is the best thing Spielberg has ever written.)

One of my half-jokey responses to scars long before the surgery was that “Scars Build Characters” delivered in the same dismissive, Little League coach tone as “walk it off” and “rub some dirt on it.” Or to quote the Team Atomic bracelet on my left wrist: “Harden The Fuck Up.” According to Google, “Scars Build Character” is also the name of a play and appears in some modern country song lyrics. I have no idea how this came into my personal lexicon, but there it is, more relevant than ever.

In a few weeks, Lisa and I will be spending five or so days at a house on the beach in southern New Jersey with a group of old friends. It’s been a hard year. Some of us have lost parents and I’m not the only one that as battled cancer. Barring a double-dog dare at a bar after a few drinks, the scars won’t make their public debut until then. I’m not sure if I’m self-conscious about this or not. When I had the ostomy bag, I kept reading about people going the beach and swimming with them. Yes, mine was temporary, but I would have never, ever considered anything remotely close to this level of exposure and it makes my concerns about people’s reactions to the purplish lines, squiggles, and dots written across my stomach seem quaint and prudish.

One more scar note. I don’t know what it means, but keep having a two-line poem about scars going through my head. It appears on the album sleeve of a mid-70s Neil Young album:

Lyndon Johnson bared his scars

American Stars N Bars