Updated: July 8, 2021
Originally Published: September 9, 2016
These are my stretch marks. I created them.
I penned those words in the journal I kept last summer, alongside notes about my mother’s health. When you visit a hospital day after day, week after week, certain routines develop: greetings with nurses, updates on her condition. You become accustomed to seeing a loved one in an unfamiliar state. Yet, some moments transform the mundane into the profound.
When I entered my mother’s hospital room that day, I was struck by her body, a vessel that had carried her through 60 years. It had endured so much: breast cancer, kidney cancer, liver failure, and ultimately a metastatic brain tumor. She hadn’t always treated it kindly, either—a lifetime of smoking, a decade of drinking, a love for sweets, and an aversion to exercise. Yet, she never complained, at least not in front of me.
Days had passed since we last shared a meaningful conversation. She had stopped opening her eyes or eating, but I noticed her fidgeting. She must have been scratching her belly, as her green shirt had ridden up just beneath her remaining breast, exposing her swollen abdomen.
For a brief moment, I felt compelled to look away and cover her up. My mother had always been self-conscious about her body. The only evidence of her once wearing a two-piece bathing suit was a faded red photograph from her teenage years, showcasing her tall frame and beautiful legs, likely taken before my arrival. Throughout my life, she had expressed disdain for her extra skin, which had stretched to accommodate tiny humans. She preferred one-piece swimsuits and cover-ups, always tugging at shirts that felt too revealing.
But in that quiet room, just the two of us and some unplugged machines, jagged white lines crisscrossed her belly like marks on a tree, and I couldn’t look away. An indescribable intensity enveloped me, drawing me in as I felt the weight of our 40 years together mirrored in her skin.
Those marks told a story of motherhood—an undeniable and beautiful testament during a moment when I desperately needed to connect with her life, which was soon to depart.
In those lines on her belly, I saw myself: her sleepless nights, her heartburn, her discomfort in finding a comfortable position to sleep. I was her wish to finally meet me after four long weeks of anticipation. It was a tapestry of joy, struggle, laughter, and tears woven through our lives together. Soon, she would be taking my marks with her.
Stretch marks aren’t something most people aspire to have. I understand that. They, along with scars from C-sections, sagging breasts, and countless other reminders of motherhood, can challenge a woman’s self-image. I recognize that mothers lamenting their stretch marks still hold immense love for their children. Society often pressures us to conceal, remove, or alter what we perceive as imperfections. We are individuals separate from our children, yearning for self-acceptance.
But what if, just for a moment, when we touch those marks peeking from swimsuits or spilling over jeans, we considered how our little ones might perceive them? One day, our children may look at our scars and see not flaws or imperfections, but rather a connection, an outpouring of love immortalized on our skin.
This article was originally published on September 9, 2016.
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Summary:
This piece reflects on a poignant moment in the author’s life as she contemplates her mother’s stretch marks during a hospital visit. It explores the complexities of body image in motherhood, connecting the physical marks of a woman’s journey through life and motherhood with the deep emotional bonds shared with her children. The narrative encourages readers to see beauty and love in their imperfections.