Limbo

 This is when we should, but do not, write. When we do not yet know whether the blockage can be removed, or how, or how much blood will be lost, and whether the blood matters or doesn’t, and whether the cause - the underlying problem - is - a lump like clay, or a festering mass of cells waiting to break out like so many drunk assassins in a teenage body.

This is when we do not write because we know we are incapable of speaking in the language of every day (I’ve always had a strange relationship with quotidian). We lean toward the dramatic and cry at the sight of a hairpin on an old lady’s head, because she got to be old, and we never realized that that was what we’d hoped for our children.

In plain terms, 14F has hematometrocolpus. A complete blockage. She has been pooling up with blood for 6 months, and a surgeon must release the blood. And a surgeon must determine why the pooling has happened - what the “mass” is that blocks. everything.  And the surgeon must figure out how to keep the mass from forestalling the next 6 months of menses. 

And then the surgeon - or some pale and soft-spoken messenger, will unveil the secret, hidden, long-term cost of this “procedure” that 14 cannot discuss at school, and cannot fail to discuss because, “that’s how rumours get started.”

14F is strong. 14F maintains a sense of humour. She says it’s fine to be admitted as long as she gets a hospital bracelet. She collects them. She jokes about catheterization. She grows resilience in front of us, like - like nothing. There is nothing like 14F.

Dear surgeon. know this. There is nothing like her.