I found this post while surfing the net through my datacard (T1 gone to hell). Since the original site is blocked by BITS net, I took the liberty of copying the contents here, giving the author credit for his work. It's a short remembrance, but intensely emotional. His wife is a sufferer of ventricular aneurysm (heart defect). I hope you guys like it.

A Field Guide to Scars

bytennmac©

My wife has a scar under her chin. It has been there since childhood, and is not the result of a single incident, but rather of multiple encounters with the driveway, the tree limb, the hockey stick, and any other hard object in the vicinity. When she has had quite enough guff, thank you very much, she leads with that chin, and the scar becomes visible. I believe this to constitute truth in advertising, a visual warning, similar to a tiger's growl, signifying that your continued existence is only on her sufferance.

I love this scar. It proclaims that she is not a girly-girl, and demands respect for doing foolish things in foolish ways and surviving, bloodied perhaps, but unbowed.

My wife has a scar on her belly. It has been there since the birth of our third son, who was so wrapped up in his umbilical cord that he was choking himself, an entirely characteristic manner of behavior we were to learn as he matured. After 2 "routine" vaginal deliveries of 9 pounders, though how the word "routine" could possibly be assigned to this task is beyond me, we were cocky, so sure that we had everything well in hand.

And then his heart rate started to drop. It came back up in a few seconds, but it went down again with each contraction, and starting coming back to baseline more and more slowly. Finally, it did not come back up. I stood watching a line on a graph revealing my child's mortal peril. The L&D staff hurried about their tasks with urgency and professional calm, preparing her for what was necessary. I need to be strong I told myself, she needs me to be calm and supportive. I looked in her eyes and started to stammer out those platitudes appropriate to the situation. I could see my fear reflected back to me, but she smiled, squeezed my hand and told me that this is what she deserved for marrying a man a foot taller and 100 pounds heavier. We laughed far harder than this weak jest merited.

I love this scar. It speaks to me of that special courage of women, and of the particular courage of one woman. It was narrow and pink at first, but gradually faded to a shade just a bit lighter than her natural skin tone. Originally, there was a zone of numbness around it, about an inch wide, but as time went on, that zone narrowed, and now, only the scar itself is still insensitive. Still, I kiss it anytime I am in the vicinity, as it speaks to me of her strength, and what a mother undertakes for her children.

My wife has scars and bruises all over her legs. She is the mother of three boys, and with that comes football, baseball, soccer, and Boy Scouts. She was a swimmer herself, and could not have cared less about these kinds of things, but she made herself into quite the coach as necessity required.

I love these scars too. Our joke has been that should I piss her off enough, she could have me sent to prison for wife abuse simply by showing the cops her legs.

My wife has a scar on her chest, where her right breast used to be. She was too young and too healthy to have breast cancer, but apparently the breast cancer was unaware of these prerequisites, and attacked her anyway. She has always had beautiful breasts, and I a committed breast man. I remember sitting there in the doctor's office thinking that I was going to smash the face of this quack for frightening her (me?) so much with this rubbish. I remember how helpless I felt. I remember how calm she was, so matter of fact, until she came home from the hospital, and we saw the wound together for the first time.

I love this scar more than all the others put together. She didn't believe that then, and I suspect that she doesn't believe it now, but it is true. She was sure that I would be repulsed, that she was not just scarred, but mutilated. Nevertheless, I have a passionate love for this scar. That scar meant that she lived. Every kiss, every caress, every act of love, every fuck since then has been because of that scar. The cosmetic repair after wards is fine, but the scar saved her life. That scar gave us the past 15 years, the boat that we always wanted to retire to, the endless days of sailing the Caribbean, the fun of watching our boys match wits with their boys.

My wife has a scar on the front wall of her heart. I do not love this scar. This scar is going to kill her, and quite soon as it happens. She never did trust me to plan and pack for any of our trips, so she will go ahead to prepare a place for us. Then the only scars will be mine.

On reading this, I have already made up my mind to apply for an organ donor card. Someday, when my heart (or any other organ) will cease to be of any use to me, it might prevent this kind of heartbreak by saving someone else.