I Don’t Want a Liver Transplant
Sleep is kind of like a thought eraser that swipes the day clean. But I frequently wake up in the middle of the night and remember the tumor. One night last August I awoke with the image of big clamps all around my chest cavity. Eyes wide open now, I saw myself lying on a table surrounded by doctors and nurses, my face as white as the fish I had seen floating belly up on the pond last year. I could see my head arching back with a tube tunneling down my throat that clicked and whished while forcing air into my lungs. I blinked hard and then stared at my chest as my breasts moved up and down. I wondered what it would be like to wake up in ICU with that machine on and my hands tied down. Shaking my head with an audible moan, I flung back the covers, and jumped out of bed like the house was on fire.
My heels drummed a hollow beat on the wood floor as I fairly flew to the kitchen. I stood in the dark. I don’t want a liver transplant. The thought of someone dying to keep me alive is more than I can bear. Of course there are a lot of other things that I don’t want. I don’t want to clean the branches up from the last storm. I don’t want to pay taxes or shave my legs. I don’t want cancer.
