Does it matter, where the DNA came from? Wise people recommend attending to the present, not dwelling on the past.
There is no more time to think. The day of the consultation with the surgeon arrives. He examines my nether parts, then calls in all my friends and loved ones who have come along to give moral support. He is kind and makes sure we all have something to sit on. “I am going to be blunt with you,” he starts. I am ready for this no-beating-around-the-bush attitude. “The patholgy report shows that you have a particularly aggressive cancer called papillary serous. You will have a complete hysterectomy.”
I have worn a shirt with brightly colored squares, orange green yellow red purple, to show that I am a happy positive person, but my face goes pale. My mother told me that when she had her hysterectomy, they left in a little bit of ovary to keep her hormones in balance. “This kind of cancer likes ovaries,” says the surgeon. “We cannot do that here. Besides you are already in menopause, so it doesn’t matter.” Somehow, it matters.
Am I not, after all, a robot with enduring robust and sparkly parts?
Am I really filled with an organic gooey fragile mess, a mortal, like those relatives who went under the knife for the sake of science?
Cancer Frog Blog by Judith Ogus is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at cancerfrogblog.randomarts.biz