Op Note VII
She was afraid we wouldn’t find anything. That she was completely empty. I assured her we always did. But once we unzipped her we all gasped. It wasn’t there. Nor was anything else. A cavity of vast emptiness. Of course we didn’t tell her this. We called her loneliness a pancreas. Her sadness became a liver. Her anger morphed into a spleen. We described her future death as a tumor nestled amongst critical structures and way too dangerous to resect. It would have killed her. Of course this was all make believe. But she was full of ideas now. At her follow-up visit, she seemed serene and pleased. She loved her life again. She was a body again, full of indescribable mysteries. She smiled when I said her name out loud. She rested both hands on her swollen belly like a mother bearing twins.