Later in the dream, it migrated to my brain. The doctors said it would have to be removed, but that its removal would have some positive effects. For one thing, my hormones would balance out and my breasts would deflate to a more normal size. They could operate today. Oh, but there's a chance you might be partially paralyzed by the surgery. This information leaked out as an aside, a reference to a future limp. Then she mentioned that my hands might shrivel up into talons. I began sobbing, asked what the chances were that this would happen. She said that it wasn't that big a deal. Lots of people got by with claw hands. I inferred that the chances were good that, after all was said and done, I would be left in this condition. I thought of the Minamata mercury poisonings, the famous photo of a mother bathing her daughter in black water, the daughter's hands twisted as roots.
I pleaded with her. I wouldn't be able to draw, to type, or to cycle. But perhaps I could still sing. I imagined a thin stream of a melody unraveling from my still, twisted form. I could dictate my novel, a novel all the richer for my predicament, saturated with my misfortune. I'd be like Flannery O'Connor, standing on the porch of her estate, leaning heavily on her braces. I wondered if I would be able to find lovers. The lookers I'd been in the habit of dating would certainly be off-limits.
I pleaded again. She didn't understand. I wouldn't be able to draw anymore, and I drew beautifully. Beautifully? She raised an eyebrow. Yes, beautifully. I walked weeping from the hospital, away from the unsympathetic doctor and my baffled mother, to call my father. To tell him what they were asking me to sacrifice. And as I waited for him to answer, I made a decision. I would live my short, heavy-breasted life unaltered by the surgeon's knife. I would let the cancer blossom over my cerebellum. I would draw and ride my bike and take handsome lovers until I died.
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