amphibi.us

(originally published by Get Born, Spring 2008)

The air in the sterile white room is full of chemical smells that, strangely, are only present in doctor’s offices. Each breath I take tickles my nose hairs before slithering through my nostrils and soaking into my lungs, and I hate that on top of everything else, even the air is inhabiting me.

You see, I have Dysplasia. Big word, little meaning. Precancerous cells. Big words, big meaning. As the doctor pushes my knees farther and farther apart, I am invaded by metal tools and poking devices just as I am occupied by mutated cells. But I can only stare at the photos tacked to the popcorn ceiling, hoping that my cervix is not as diseased as they thought.

On the rolling cart, I see a pile of Q-tips stacked neatly next to a nearly empty box of rubber gloves. On the other end of the table is the loop of fire. The doctor hides it from me behind my own legs, carefully trying to disguise the demonic “medicine” she is about to use on me. The burning metal ring is suddenly in her hand and she slowly moves it between my legs. She runs it over the infected cells, cauterizing and killing them. A puff of white smoke wafts toward the ceiling and I smell myself, a combination of flesh and fear from my burning body and the sweat that trickles down my forehead.

Then she is done. I am burnt but I am healed. I am made stronger but I am weakened. These paradoxical truths make me afraid to ask the question I have been rehearsing since I entered the sanitary establishment.

“Will I be able to have kids?”

The doctor tells me she is hopeful. As long as the bad cells don’t grow back, my cervix will heal and a baby will be possible. But the fragile skin is thin now having been cut away by her hands, and I may not be able to carry to full term. She says that the longer I allow myself to heal, the better chance a baby will have.

I heed her advice, but it feels like every twenty eight days another chance is lost, like every egg has potential that is somehow being wasted. Every year, I get older. Waiting. How long do I wait? How long do I wonder? When will I know the answers to the questions that I ask? My heart is ready, and my mind is prepared, but my body. How do I know when my body is ready? It seems healthy and it feels good. But what is inside? Someone please tell me that my scars are healed.

© Tchiki Davis, 2009

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