Monday, September 19, 2016


The dressing room at the hospital is, for some reason, equipped with full length mirrors in the curtained stalls. I stand, naked from the waist down, under the yellowish fluorescent lights and examine myself: hair on my head coming in nicely, pubic hair beginning to thicken again (but grayer than it was, I think), leg hair almost grown except for one hairless oblong outlining the thick scar running down one leg where you can almost see the dimension and shape of the rays they beam into me to keep the cancer from recurring.

I sigh and wrap the rough blue gown around me, opening to the back, negotiate the thin straps they use for ties to keep it closed, and place my stuff in a thin locker that reminds me of a high school gym.

There's a new guy working the machine, and he's got the form they put me in to make sure I'm in the same position every time on the table completely backwards.

One year ago today: Unguarded
Two years ago today: Drawing Attention
Three years ago today: Priorities

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