Every time I called seemed to piss the nurse off more. Her anger toward me-- a reminder that my chest was "the something burning." Her hatred bore into my mangled breasts; matching the heat of the cauterizing tool used by my plastic surgeon as he attempted to excise the Necrosing skin from my ever-weeping wound.
I watched the way his gloved, knotty-knuckled hands moved in unflinching confidence via the Minor Room's giant surgical spotlight. Hovering above, it illuminated and intensified my anxiety. But hope that he'd somehow be able to excise the demons kept ticking away as my surgeon's scalpel slipped deeper into and under my skin. These "things," these reconstructed Barbie breasts, are a completely different reality that's yet to sink in.
Still on the table, fear is real and nauseating. Physical pain I can handle. It's my thoughts that need numbing. Knowing I'll never fit any mold with this mangled cross-genre body; a chest cast by science fiction, doll parts full of real darkness, magnifies my vulnerability. And it makes me cry. I look up to see him take another piece of me, more BRCA1 mutant flesh that's a lab bound bio-hazard. He blots the blood rushing to fill the new void. He then threads the needle through my skin. His movements are quick, stitches done with strength and swiftness as he tries to keep me together. I study the intensity of the effort he puts into that last stitch. And finally, I see something I felt to be impossible; closure and potential to finally heal, glittering from his light.
I'm an aspiring writer. I'm currently working on a memoir about my prophylactic double mastectomy. I also write poetry and dabble in fiction.