My Body Keeps The Score (Roundabout Musings on Trauma Informed Care)

I had a really talented lover once, who told me that it was sexy. Considering it had been something that as a child I had hidden beneath clothing and band-aids and balled  somewhere in middle school when the dermatologist refused to remove it because he said it looked totally healthy and would likely scar, that compliment made my panties dissolve. And hey, everyone deserves that kind of energy at least once in their lives, though side effects often include heartbreak and accepting a pretty dumpster fire of a person’s bullshit for a while until you’ve had your fill of both good sex and nervous breakdowns.

My husband, on the other hand, never mentioned it, my far more stable adonis. Nervous breakdowns, thankfully, not required. And so it for years it was far from my mind, neutral at most.

He looked to be three, maybe four wives in at this point, the dermatologist. His face pulled back smooth in that, “I have access to great skincare treatment and procedures and this is what healthy skin looks like,” which, maybe aided by the slicked back pony tail and botox actually read as more of a Star Trek character but confident all the same.

I hadn’t thought about getting it removed in years, honestly, the mole on my chest. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it had a nurse friend about six months back not looked at it randomly and said, “I used to work in dermatology, you should get that looked at.” And so I made an appointment for six months down the road because welp, that’s how dermatology works and here we are.

Back on The Starship Enterprise it’s apparent within seconds of our first handshake that on the contrary, Dr. Smooth Face does not think my mole is sexy and indeed does want to remove it because he doesn’t love the pigmentation. He offers fake apologies, seemingly asking to touch me as if he weren’t already doing so, as he explores the mole, my collar bone, the skin around it.

The nurse is silent during the brief in office procedure, I see in my periphery a flurry of activity that, due to the proximity of the mole on my chest, limits me from seeing much more. The needle for numbing. The tools for removing. The chemicals for cauterizing. Minimal explanations. Minimal warning. No questions about my questions or comfort.

He has no idea, he can’t have known in fact, what a challenge it has been to be in this body recently. Two pregnancy losses, a surgical procedure after one loss, months of pregnancy sickness with no baby as my reward, so many lab orders with needle sticks, a totally unrelated but at least equally unpleasant biopsy at the ENT which was also incredibly painful and slow healing.

But what if he had? Known, I mean. Or maybe, and probably more importantly, even cared to know?

The details wouldn’t have been important.

May I touch you?

I’m just laying this over you to keep things sterile and protect your clothes.

Is it alright if I adjust your shirt a bit more?

After the numbness wears off it may be a bit sore.

What would have been, could have been different?

I think a lot of about the idea of universal precautions, this idea we are taught in healthcare about acting as though everyone we interact with has some sort of cootie that we should prudently protect ourselves from.

But I think of trauma informed care much the same. The idea that we should interact with people as though we have no idea where they have been before this moment with us, but we can safely assume that for most there have been some unpleasant stops on their journey.

After a week, as instructed, I stopped covering the healing wound that had replaced the mole which had once been my shame, then my pride, then nothing at all. I had to battle the urge, ironically, to hide the scar. But I haven’t. I won’t.

It’s all a part of the moments that have come before, the good, the bad, the lovely. It’s all a part of what makes me, me. I will honor it, and I will not be ashamed.

But I do wish that there were space…respect…regard even, for that journey, for my journey, in more of my healthcare.