(1)
The doctors warned me that I might get depressed after the surgery.
Before the surgery, my tumor was producing five times more cortisol than normal.
After the surgery, it would take months before my remaining adrenal gland would start producing enough cortisol.
In between, I will feel tired and low even though I will be taking hydrocortisone pills.
Ideally, I will be able to taper them off slowly, reducing the dose every week.
"It will be a long and tiring process," the doctors assured me.
"I felt tired and depressed before the surgery so that it will be nothing new," I tried to reassure my doctors.
"Yes, but before, you felt tired and depressed because you had too much. After, you will feel so because you don't have enough. It's very different," the doctors seemed concerned.
The doctors seemed tired. And somewhat depressed.
But they were also excited because they would get to cut my tumor off. And cutting tumors is exciting and admirable.
And then one gets to experiment with those tumors once they are cut and out.
No patient asks for a tumor back or expresses the wish to keep it for a souvenir in formaldehyde on a shelf in a library
or on a bedside table. So, the doctors get to play with other people's tumors and write papers about their findings.
(2)
My clock lost its hands and could no longer tell time.
"It's okay," I reassured doctors. "I understand the complications."
"You may no longer feel like yourself," the doctors continued.
"I'm not sure if I feel like myself now before the surgery," I said.
It was true. I could not tell if I felt on top of the world, or downright miserable,
or even if it mattered at all how I felt. I no longer knew.
After the surgery, I discovered that my tumor was made of fear.
That's why it was producing so much cortisol: the fight-or-flight hormone.
Now, while the remaining adrenal gland is still half-asleep, I seem not to feel fear.
No, I don't feel particularly brave, but rather… indifferent.
Fears are hopes in disguise.
Have I lost hopes too?
(3)
One of the scars on my belly is bigger than the others.
Sometimes, I dream it becomes unglued, my belly opens up,
and my insides start falling out for everyone to see.
Last night I dreamt I was having surgery, but the surgeon kept forgetting what kind of surgery it was
and kept waking me up to ask over and over again. He was also not sure if he had my name right.
Drugged by anesthetics, I kept misspelling my name until I, too, was doubting if I was the right patient.
(4)
It is now two weeks and three days since my surgery, and I can no longer see the surgeon's initials
marked on my belly next to the four scars. Strangely, I miss them.
The scars also look different. The glue has partially fallen off, and under the bond, there is some pink skin
senza the red-and-black drama of stabbing wounds.
The remaining glue looks dirty and gray, like the residue left by Scotch tape.
My belly still looks inflated; for the surgery, they filled it with gas and fluids.
I do not know how to answer how I'm feeling because I do not know what I am feeling and, more importantly,
how I'm supposed to be feeling. The best thing to do with feelings is to transport them.
I know what I'm feeling if I hear it in music or read it in a poem.
But without art, without its forms, how can I name the unnamable?
After the storm, the choir of frogs sings "Alleluia"
while Venus and the moon are getting ever closer each night this week.
(5)
Anything can become anything can become anything.
I love nights because nights hide; you can imagine something magical,
and there is no evidence to the contrary.
That's why witches preferred to fly at night. Shady characters.
But if flying on a broomstick seems childish,
why is wearing a cross with a brutally murdered Jew any better?
Each religion pulls the symbolic blanket of righteousness on its side.
My god is the only true god; my beliefs are the most believable.
My friend Burcin in Minnesota said, "I believe in butter. Because butter makes everything better."
But probably even 'I believe in butter' belief could find its opposition.
I believe in music. But does music believe in me?
I am here but also absent.
This is a gem. It must go into the annals of the medical profession. Into short story anthologies. Into poetry books. Into encyclopedias—entry under A, adrenal cancer, symptoms.
Posted by: Anne Harding Woodworth | April 03, 2021 at 08:23 AM
I enjoyed this so much. And still enjoy it.
Posted by: Angela Ball | April 03, 2021 at 09:01 AM
Lera's drawing, Home-Oil on Canvas, is just what the doctors ordered
It's as though it were sailing off with her extracted tumors
Which have the consistency of Play-Doh, ripe for lab analysis
Fear not, G-D saves all, He saves the Queen
Olive oil is better than butter which is better than margarine
Which is music to my heart
In absentia, we are all just souls
Posted by: Joel Weiner | April 03, 2021 at 10:19 AM
This is a beautiful post, with superb commentary.
Posted by: Tony Paris | April 03, 2021 at 03:14 PM