9
Dany
Three weeks after the surgery I’m in an exam room at the hospital. The drains are gone. The staples are gone. The cancer…
The paper gown scratches my skin and I want to itch the scar on my chest. My mother stands across the room. She looks between me and the doctor. I look down. The vinyl of the exam table is cold against my bare legs. Why is it that everyone else gets to wear clothing during these conversations? The doctor wears a long white coat, buttoned-up shirt and pleated khakis. My mother is in her Burberry coat and Donna Karan wrap dress. Me, I’m in cotton underwear and a blue paper gown that opens at the front. I try to fold the edges more closely together so that I’m not so exposed.
“What do you mean it’s not gone?” my mother asks. Her voice drips ice.
The air conditi
