Eyes closed. Heart open. Arms outstretched as wide as possible because she’s an adult and a child’s tender embrace is the only comfort she can find. Tight hugs. Salty tears roll down confused cheeks. Only the bond between a mother and daughter can deal with this kind of tragedy and survive. It was past midnight and all the relief I could offer was bestowed upon my mother. She had just been released from the hospital that day; cancer lost its battle with this tough fighter. Cancer-free, she lay in my eleven-year-old arms and wept. As I held her tight, she curled up next to me in my bed. She spoke between sobs, “Why me?” Trying to understand how she could be feeling at the moment, all words vanished from my thoughts, and I hugged her tighter. Sanitized, artificial air polluted my room. Blood from still fresh, rough stitches on her nose where a skin graph had been taken stained my pillowcase, but that didn’t matter.
My mom had fallen victim to skin cancer of the nose. Growing up a farm girl, she spent many of her younger years outside in the sun, which contributed to damaging her skin. At first, the cancer appeared to be a small mosquito bite that would not stop bleeding. I agreed carelessly with her, thinking only of a small mosquito bite that would heal in a few days. Dermatologists ran tests, and sure enough the “mosquito bite” was cancer. My mom did not keep anything a secret to me, for she knew I could handle and understand the deathly truth of cancer. I feared not, for the Lord would keep my mom safe no matter what. Doctors said the cancer was only a few layers deep, but during the actual surgery, they ended up cutting out over twice as many layers of skin tissue. Drastic measures were taken, and eventually doctors took skin from the top of her head and brought it down to her nose to replace the cancerous skin after the removal. The graph was still attached to her head when it was sewn back on to her nose that way the nerves were still connected to help heal her nose. Considering this, a three-inch flap of skin hanged across her brow, connecting her scalp and nose. As a fifth-grader, I took light of the situation and named this flap Dolores. Dolores had to be cleaned every day with Q-tips and a liquid cleanser. I thought this activity was quite entertaining; likewise, my mom relished in my care-giving interest. Because I love helping others, tending for my mom was gratifying for me since she couldn’t do it herself.

After a couple days passed, bruises appeared along the stitches, and her eyes had sunken in with exhaustion. Her body was definitely trying its best to heal after such an extensive surgery. She could hardly eat because a feeding tube from the hospital had scratched her throat, but she forced down some soup once in a while. Every day, she miserably dragged herself out of bed and stood along the kitchen wall to have her picture taken as a timeline of her healing process. The doctor had taken pictures during the surgery at the time her nose had been completely removed before the skin graph, but I was told not to look at those pictures at the time. I’ve looked at these pictures since then. How could something so terrible happen to such a wonderful person? I was horrified, not because the pictures were disturbing, but because I could see how helpless my mom looked, lying on the bed fighting to stay alive. I myself felt helpless because what could I possibly do to help? My small stature and little heart didn’t phase my longing to help, however. Daddy wasn’t about to help her through the coming healing process, so I proved how much of a leader I could be for my mother by being her only caregiver.

Day by day she regained strength, and purple bruises turned to yellow patches then to pink skin. Dolores was kept clean and healthy, and the doctor was pleased at my work during check-ups. Everything went accordingly until one day while my mom stood in the bathroom mirror and saw something peculiar. A white oval shape had appeared over her forehead next to Dolores. It had never surfaced before, and it couldn’t be washed off. It was as if God had placed his own thumbprint on her forehead, letting her know she was being watched over.

The next day the print was gone. She firmly believes God had placed his thumb upon her forehead, and I do too. She really does have a guardian angel looking after her. Since that day, doctor visits ran smoothly and stitches and staples came out cleanly. Not only did she heal completely in just a few months, but the stitch lines become hardly visible.

To the keen eye, a rectangular strip is visible on the top of my mom’s nose. Makeup covers the tiny remnants of stitch marks, but I tell her she doesn’t have to hide the scars. The scars reveal what makes her who she is: a fighter, a survivor. She will always wear these scars, but the price of a few stitches will never compare to the life God’s thumb print has granted her.