Birthmark

I was born. Not hatched.

I thought about getting a tattoo.

A forever imprint of my Dad. His resilience, his fighting spirit.

I stood before the bathroom mirror, and my eyes lowered to my right bicep.

The corners of my mouth lifted. I had a forever imprint.

My birthmark.

Same as my Grandma Betty and Dad.

I loathed that misshaped, discolored, hairy skin patch when I was younger. I was teased, kids pointed and poked. They called it an ugly hairy mole or asked what happened to me and why I was so gross. Why was hair growing out of it (even though there is hair on our arms but whatever)? I was a freak in their eyes.

I hated shirts that exposed it. I'd cover it with my hand in photographs. My Grandma told me to tell kids it means I was born and not hatched. Yeah, that works when you're 8, not 13.

I begged my Mom to take me to the doctor and ask him to remove it. She did but was against the idea. The doctor told me I wasn't done growing and removing it would cause a more prominent scar. That was not what I wanted to hear.

Even when I was 19 and choosing a wedding dress, I ensured the sleeves mostly covered my birthmark—the years of stinging words pierced that hereditary mark of skin and my self-confidence.

Then I had a child different from others, a child picked apart by both kids and adults. Though my birthmark isn't comparable to his Autism, sharing my story with Logan put in perspective not only for him but me as well that we mustn't hate those parts of us that society deems imperfect or ugly. It's okay to be angry or frustrated, but trying to "fix" or alter those parts to appease others isn't necessary.

Embrace all the lovely parts of ourselves. Who cares what people say? Life is too short to give a damn. If they don't like it, they can look the other way.

I'm grateful the doctor told me no.

I would've regretted it. I'd be nearly 43 and devastated that I changed a fragment of myself because others chose to be mean. After all, societal norms are bullshit.

My birthmark is part of the Johnson lineage. It's a pattern stitched together before I was even part of this world.

How magical is that?

And that's what we are, pure messy, beautiful sacred magic.

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Dad Update

We are on day 11 of Dad's hospital stay. His blood pressure is quite fickle and drops dramatically, but the doctor continues to give him medication to stabilize it. The pneumonia is no longer a threat—zero wheezing. This round of chemo knocked him on his ass; therefore, they will lower the dose next time. His kidney has recovered as well, which is excellent. It was the perfect storm to send Dad to the emergency room between recuperating from radiation, being hit with pneumonia, and then supersonic chemo.

This was scary, and though it has taken time for him to bounce back, he is.

We appreciate the texts, messages, comments of love, prayers, and healing energy. It's helped us get through this rough moment. We believe discharge will happen this week; it's a matter of going a day or two without his blood pressure plummeting to dangerous levels.

He'll get there.

My Dad is badass like that.