This is my appendix scar. I’m missing an organ. I’m missing a body part. One morning when I was 13, I woke up in terrible pain and knew something was seriously wrong with me. I called my mom at work, and she took me to my doctor. At his office, I began vomiting until the only substance coming out was stomach bile. He sent me to the hospital to be treated for dehydration from vomiting, at the very least. When the doctors at the hospital had performed enough tests to determine that I had appendicitis, I finally underwent surgery. The surgeon sliced me open with a laser and stitched me up with surgical glue, fairly new procedures at the time that have helped minimize its appearance.

I’ve had the scar for half my life now, so I barely notice it, and I often don’t realize that it shows when I wear a bikini or my shirt rides up – that is, until someone asks what that “thing” is, which happened more often when it was fresh and gross. It took a few tries to get a clear picture; my phone wasn’t focusing on the scar as distinct from the rest of my skin, which is an appropriate testament to how it has become immaterial to me.