18 HEARTBEAT® JANUARY–MARCH 2024 Bridget Ballard YOUTH, GRADES 6-8 INDIANA The Mirror When I look in the mirror, I don’t see the perfect girl they see. They say my life is easy, but I’ve col- lected my own share of scars along the way. When I look in the mirror, I see the part of me I’ve worked so hard to hide: the unnaturally pale streak cutting my chest in two, the white slash across my shoulder blade, the hole in my stomach from the feeding tube I wore for almost five years. I see my ribs protruding from beneath my fragile skin, veins twisting like a spider’s web all over my body. My shoulders are noticeably uneven, the left one higher up than the right. Scars are cruel, constant reminders of the trauma I have endured and the pain I might one day feel again. Most people can run from their past, deny the truth, pretend to be someone they’re not. I don’t have that getaway. Scars write my history across my torso. Pain and fear jolt through my body when other people sit idly, undisturbed. My middle school peers bring up the past when they probe me with questions, such as, “Do you have an eating disorder?” or “What’s it like being disabled?” or “When are you gonna die?” I often wish that my elementary school had never made such a huge palaver over my unique babyhood. Maybe then, kids wouldn’t know. Other times, I wish that I could simply erase the scars that forever brand my skin or that there was a cure to make my heart whole. What would it be like if I didn’t have Congenital Heart Disease? I like to think that I would still be the same person I am today: smart and strong and sweet, but I find that hard to believe. My scars have been with me since before I can remember. Taking away the holes in my heart would be like taking away my whole heart. An octo- pus — brilliant, beautiful, beloved — has three hearts, but I only get one. With- out it, I wouldn’t laugh, wouldn’t love, wouldn’t live. Yes, my heart’s words sound different from the rest. But if my words melded into the cacophony of heartbeats, how would the world know that I have something to say? When I look in the mirror, I see the beginning of who I am now: the thin, moon-pale line down the center of my chest, the ivory curve across my shoul- der blade, the little place marked on my stomach where my “Tubey Button” used to live. I can see my heart beating beneath my fair skin, veins painting blue streaks across my body. My shoulders are uneven, the left one sitting a little taller than the right. Scars are beautiful, cher- ished merits for all that I have overcome. To some people, I may seem like a prisoner, trapped behind the bars of my own severed ribcage. They see me as bleeding and broken, unable to escape. But I don’t need to run from my history. Photo courtesy of Elizabeth Ballard An octopus — brilliant, beautiful, beloved — has three hearts, but I only get one. Bridget Ballard
