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God, you look like you were attacked by a gorilla. What happened to you?

I turned my head to regard the lady sitting next to me in the waiting room of a vets office in Santa Fe, New Mexico. I could have told her how rude she was to ask me this. I could have gotten indignant and refused to respond. I could have told her the truth, but I didnt. Instead, I gave the explanation I give when people look at my scars in disgust and abject antipathy, the looks on their faces saying, Wow, glad Im not her.

Motor cycle accident. I responded without skipping a beat.

I felt her eyes scan my legs again. I wore shorts that day, and the fading scars that took up my knees were on display. Not that I am ashamed.

Well, at least your face was spared. She told me, turning back to check emails on her phone.

Im not going to lie and say that living with a terminal illness has granted me some kind of enlightenment, enlightenment that makes these things hurt less. It hurt. But I am not ashamed. And I will tell you why.

When I was born, the doctors did not know why I blistered.