The examination over,
I started to put on my shirt,
when Dr. Avin noticed
the raised scar on my right wrist.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this cyst?
he stared at the bump. “We should get it biopsied.”
“It’s scar tissue, from when I went through
the glass door in my parents’ building’s vestibule.”
“But why’s it raised?” he demanded.
“The surgeon told me he had to tie off
the tendons and blood vessels inside the wrist,
with some sort of surgical thread.”
“Really?” he was fascinated, his days mostly
spent warning patients about blood pressure,
diabetes, lipids, and cholesterol.
“That’s what he told me,” I shrugged.
“But I was eleven, and would’ve believed
anything from the guy who’d just saved my life.”
Another doctor, years later, assured me,
“We can do plastic surgery on that now,
so the wrist will look like new.”
I told him I was used to it, like my eyeglasses,
when one ophthalmologist said they had lasers,
so I’d never need those comfortable,
comforting specs again.
