To tell or not to tell, that is the question
So, ladies and gentlemen, for the first time in months, I went on a date!
It went well... but that’s all I’m going to say about the date itself. I’m writing to explore the issue of when the right time is to tell someone about my illness.
The scar from my very first operation is noticeable. It comes quite high-up my chest, and is something I’ve always been self-conscious of. I hate scars; they’re bobbly where the skin has stuck together, and I just have so many of them: two down my front, one either side under my arms, and three little scar holes above my belly button.
I can tell when someone notices my chest scar because they won’t look me in the eye for a few seconds after they’ve seen it. That’s when I usually tell them it’s from open heart surgery. Some people go on to quiz me about it, others just nod and say “Cool” or “I never knew!”. But I hate the moment they notice. It makes me feel so embarrassed.
Last night, he noticed. The above happened and I told him about my surgery. “You’re alright now though, right?” he asked.
How should I have responded to this? I thought about it in the taxi home and the whole of the next day. What should I tell any potential suitor? Because, who is going to want to take things further if they know that in a few years’ time they’ll have to support me through life-changing surgery, with no guarantee I’ll be well afterwards?
And then, what about children? How do I tell them about that? The topic of children will inevitably come up and when it does, how should I approach it? Whatever I say, I know the feeling of despair and inadequacy will surge and I’ll be left feeling totally hopeless. Should I be vague? Laugh it off? Pretend it doesn’t bother me? The last thing I want to do is weep on the shoulder of some poor guy stuck listening to my woes...
I’m like the unwell Bridget Jones. I constantly make a fool of myself, laugh hysterically at my own jokes and always wear ridiculous Christmas jumpers. Indeed, my mother would probably serve us turkey curry if it weren’t for the fact that curry is fattening. And my career is slowly dying a death as my lips turn ever bluer.
What did I do when faced with this predicament halfway through a first date? I panicked, of course. Then I lied. Then I panicked some more.
“Of course I’m ok now!” I said.
[Big sigh]
Where do I go from here?
I don’t have the answer. In fact, I don’t seem to have any answers. But what I do know is I’m not giving up. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to find a partner-in-crime to fight this battle with and maybe I won’t. But giving up is not an option.
It went well... but that’s all I’m going to say about the date itself. I’m writing to explore the issue of when the right time is to tell someone about my illness.
The scar from my very first operation is noticeable. It comes quite high-up my chest, and is something I’ve always been self-conscious of. I hate scars; they’re bobbly where the skin has stuck together, and I just have so many of them: two down my front, one either side under my arms, and three little scar holes above my belly button.
I can tell when someone notices my chest scar because they won’t look me in the eye for a few seconds after they’ve seen it. That’s when I usually tell them it’s from open heart surgery. Some people go on to quiz me about it, others just nod and say “Cool” or “I never knew!”. But I hate the moment they notice. It makes me feel so embarrassed.
Last night, he noticed. The above happened and I told him about my surgery. “You’re alright now though, right?” he asked.
How should I have responded to this? I thought about it in the taxi home and the whole of the next day. What should I tell any potential suitor? Because, who is going to want to take things further if they know that in a few years’ time they’ll have to support me through life-changing surgery, with no guarantee I’ll be well afterwards?
And then, what about children? How do I tell them about that? The topic of children will inevitably come up and when it does, how should I approach it? Whatever I say, I know the feeling of despair and inadequacy will surge and I’ll be left feeling totally hopeless. Should I be vague? Laugh it off? Pretend it doesn’t bother me? The last thing I want to do is weep on the shoulder of some poor guy stuck listening to my woes...
I’m like the unwell Bridget Jones. I constantly make a fool of myself, laugh hysterically at my own jokes and always wear ridiculous Christmas jumpers. Indeed, my mother would probably serve us turkey curry if it weren’t for the fact that curry is fattening. And my career is slowly dying a death as my lips turn ever bluer.
What did I do when faced with this predicament halfway through a first date? I panicked, of course. Then I lied. Then I panicked some more.
“Of course I’m ok now!” I said.
[Big sigh]
Where do I go from here?
I don’t have the answer. In fact, I don’t seem to have any answers. But what I do know is I’m not giving up. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to find a partner-in-crime to fight this battle with and maybe I won’t. But giving up is not an option.
(Apologies to anyone who finds the Christmas jumper offensive in any way)
Don't have to say anything on a first date, you might never see them again. If they notice your scar, make up some really fantastic story! After all you never know what's lurking under their clothes! 😉
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