Preface:
On January 30th, I included a guest post called “The Scar” by Kathy Hornyak, a fellow transplant recipient, in a Facebook support group.
One line really stayed with me: “It’s better than a tattoo.” I’ve never been a tattoo person. I never knew what kind of image I’d choose or where I’d place it. (The closest I ever came was a two‑week temporary ‘tattoo’ of my late cat’s paw prints on my wrist, right where she used to rest her paw when she napped beside me.) This blog is a reflection on my scar when I look at it.
My kidney transplant scar is about six inches long.
Six inches of proof that a surgeon needed enough room to place a donated kidney inside me, connect the vessels, and give my body the function my own kidneys had lost. It’s practical; they needed space to work. What remains is a scar, a line that marks the moment a living donor turned months of uncertainty into a way forward.
In the beginning, I couldn’t look at it. Not even a glance. It felt too raw, too loud, too much like a reminder of everything my body had endured. And it was causing me immense pain. But each morning, I was asked to take a photo of it so the doctors could track the healing or monitor possible concerns, and that daily ritual became a march through recovery. One picture folded into the next, one day easing into another, each image marking time in a way my mind couldn’t grasp. And somewhere in that photo gallery, one morning stood out. I lifted the phone camera, bracing myself for the angry red line, but the image showed a softening at the edges, a hint of fading that pointed toward healing. That first noticeable change was subtle, but it was real. The thing I couldn’t bear to see became something I could face, then something I could understand, and something I could honor. The fading wasn’t only physical; it was the first sign that my body was finding balance after years of losing it.
That line represents two kidneys that failed me, and a cross-match donor who didn’t. When I run a finger along it, I remember the nights when exhaustion was a way of living, the low energy that impacted every choice, and the shrinking freedoms that turned my world into a series of waiting rooms and prayers. The scar carries those memories in its curve. It holds the moment a stranger’s generosity stepped into my story and changed the course of days once ruled by lab numbers and follow-up appointments, the moment life felt possible again.
Now the scar is lighter, softer, less visible even if you know where to look. And up close, it has a landscape of its own: a thin ridge rising under a fingertip, smoother than the surrounding skin, curving where the surgeon followed the natural lines of my abdomen. A faint pink thread in places, the color of my skin in others. Not a perfect line, but a healed one showing I made it through six weeks of recovery and patience. A physical reminder of the work my body has done to mend.
Sometimes the scar seems like a tattoo I never asked for but needed all the same. Not a badge or a medal, but more like the notch on a well-worn doorframe, the kind that marks where life began again, where the boundaries of my world narrowed and then widened once more. This line on my skin is the evidence. It is the place where my body remembers what it survived and what it was given.
Most people will never see it. Doctors and nurses, sure. But not the world. It’s tucked away. Yet the scar remains, unhidden to me, a reminder of why it’s there. It carries what I endured, the gift I received, and the life I’m living because of it.
The scar holds a record of the two years between being diagnosed with chronic kidney disease and receiving a transplant. A donated kidney isn’t a cure, but it is considered a treatment, and one that lets me be normal, feel normal, and live a freer life.
Related Posts:
Guest Post: The Scar by Kathy Hornyak
Marking Six Weeks of Transplant Recovery
Beautiful words full of imagery that I could see as I read on. Thank you for sharing this meaningful part of your transplant story, Chad!