The Last Day Of Our Acquaintance

when SaskPower looks like a urinal

The days have never moved so slowly as they have over the last month. Cancer is a millstone around time's neck, breaking down its pace into minutes that drag themselves forward with all the energy of a sloth on antipsychotics.

It must be this waiting that I am doing. I wait and I wait and I wait. I want them to take my uterus tomorrow; I want them never to take my uterus at all. Each thing I do, each thing I consume, is there to fill in the empty stretch from one moment to the next. All things are knots in the string that lead me to my nearest destiny.

I keep remembering back to when I was kid. Even when I was as young as two, I was annoyed with my corporeality. There it was, and it seemed so unnecessary. I felt that I was not properly glued to it, and I would fantasize about losing a finger to an axe or a leg to a car. Now, after all this time, I get to lose some of this meat machine I would have avoided had anyone asked for my take on it. The how and the when and the why are so unpredictable in life, but somehow it seems fitting that I should be scheduling the removal of my uterus through little tubes.

The growing melancholy in which I am swaddled makes less and less sense as I move closer to my as yet undeternined surgery date. Part of me looks forward to being free of this piece of my anatomy. No matter what birth control I was using, every month was a fretful waiting game to see if my period would come, and the terrible burden of the to-spawn-or-not-to-spawn question has made me angry for years. Being rid of this organ filled with so much undesirable potential is a dream I have had for a long time, but now that it is here and much less of a choice than I would have had it be, I am sad. Suddenly it feels like saying goodbye or going to a funeral.

I hope that, on the day of the surgery, it is raining and grey outside and that the taxicab that picks me up is shiny and black. I could be distracted by the tragedy and romance; I could wrap myself up in the ease of mental descriptions. I would think words like saturnine and suffused, and when the cab driver turned around to ask directions, I would think leonine and untidy. The seat would be spent and the clouds would be teeming. The phonemes would cradle my thoughts against the day's events. I would be a character. I could have another name.

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