….because it’s really not. I can’t promise to be on top of my blogging for the next couple weeks, there’s school and some other stuff going on that’s making me not too enthusiastic. But anyway. Here’s my latest short piece for my writing class (copping out hardcore on this blog post, I know, but I hope you enjoy the writing). OH and it’s about MS. The assignment was to reclaim something. Also, here’s the song that this post’s title is from, in case you were wondering.
Reclaiming a Body
My veins are easily accessible and the blood which flows through them has excellent pressure. The technician injecting my contrast material says I don’t look my weight and wonders aloud if she’s giving me too much by accident. The material flows into my vein, which was easy for her to tap, as she says this and I smile back up at her while lying on the table which is called a bed. It is not a bed.
When she is done, there is a snapping sound that I never understand and have always been too scared to figure out. I don’t look, ever. The snapping sound, she folds my arm over me, I am not allowed to move. She presses a button and the table/bed rises and then moves back inside the tunnel that is the MRI machine.
The headphones covering my ears play hip hop quietly and soon the noises of the MRI mingle with beats.
Ten more minutes, says the technician’s voice, I hear that through the headphones too.
I am alone.
My subcutaneous layer is too thick in some places and too thin in others. At the gym I’m not supposed to work out my arms because I already don’t have enough subcutaneous tissue there. There needs to be tissue there so I can do injections there, my stomach has already been eliminated as an injection site because of the long scar that runs across it.
Appendectomies done in small towns leave scars three times bigger than those done in big cities.
I am a collection of easily accessible veins and too much or too little subcutaneous tissue and a brain and a spine which get lesions sometimes and a long, thick scar across my stomach and a small, circular scar on my left arm and a small scar underneath my chin and a small scar on my forehead and a small tattoo behind my right ear and eyes which don’t focus well without corrective lenses.
I am identifiable. I am a body, I am the property of doctors who have been fixing me and testing me since I was just born and almost died and they told my parents eighty percent chance of death and if she lives she will be mentally retarded.
I am not mentally retarded, or they say developmentally delayed now. They still said mentally retarded back in nineteen ninety two.
This body though has been mine as well. It has grown and changed and stretched and sagged though puberty is not something I have ever been comfortable talking about. The word puberty has never been a fluent part of my vocabulary.
I think about in movies when someone dies and someone else has to go to the morgue and identify and claim the body. Because the previous owner has left, shall we say. If I were to die, I don’t know if they’d do that. Maybe the doctors would continue to poke and prod this body which is mainly theirs and my absence mentally would be not an issue. They would not need to call anyone, and there would be no body bag because I would be lying on another table which is not a bed being cut open and then sewn up again and fluids would be taken before they dried up and another MRI would occur and this time they would not need to tell me not to move.