Fiction
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May 12, 2013 (cont’d)
Today, I am feeling the heaviness that follows the realization of having lost a whole part of my body.
I have lost a whole part of my body….
What had they said when I was first diagnosed? “it is quite likely that it is only a part of it is affected; we will only take this part and leave the rest so that you can have a functional gland, however partially.”
I had felt good about this; knowing that I would not give up on the whole thing. I would not lose it altogether.
Now, there is none of it.
A part of me which served me well for a very long time. A part of me that has been separated from me in cold blood, examined in a damp, formaldehyde smelling laboratory, dissected and stained in I do not know how many different ways, parts of which were put in a biological waste bin, only to be incinerated later at an unknown place to me. Twice for that matter…Twice..
Twice I said goodbye to a part of me.
I am sure with no care or love it was handled. Maybe the pathologists said “There, another piece of specimen. Let me finish this and then meet with my friends this evening. Cannot wait..” Thinking about this me makes me sob more violently.
Poor thing… After all these years being a part of me and doing a miraculous job, it developed sickness and it is gone.
It made me sick, too.
Should I hate it?
Hate is a stronger feeling than love, but no, I can not hate it.
No matter how many times I think about blaming it for my disease; for feeling like my body betrayed me; for feeling frightened and saddened about the darkness and pain I endure or for the anxiety caused by thought of what the future may bring to me; or how victimized I feel knowing that I now was literally a damaged goods, no, blame did not play well. These made me frightened and sad, but I never, not even once, felt blame towards it.
I rather blame myself.
For losing it.
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The life in the diary – XVIII
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