Dancer by Justin Lowe
"The larynx removal was a gift from my wife."
DANCER
by Justin Lowe
When I go back for my annual check-up I’m given a clean bill of health. But since I’m already dressed and out the door, we decided to play a little prevent defense. So, it’s hello paper gown and goodbye stomach and liver. Awake, peeling the foil from a cup of juice, I’m informed that while they were in there, they made the call to take the thyroid and kidney.
The next eviction was an easy choice. 10,000 Men per year get testicular cancer. It’s a quick process they tell me, and true to their word I’m out in time for my ballroom dancing lesson with Gustavo Gundisalvus from Gustavo Gundisalvus’ Dance Academy and Driving Instruction.
That spring I had them go ahead and take out my colon and prostate. Both of which I rarely thought about and would seldom miss. Better to play it safe. I now had 7 punches on my card. Imagine a heavy white card stock. A simplified human figure stamped in red ink. Wallet-worn smooth, it nearly felt like fabric. Three more and I get one free.
That year for my birthday, I said au revoir to my gallbladder. What the hell is a gallbladder anyways? Take a hike.
Breast? A friendly-faced nurse questions, looking up from a clipboard pauses with pen in hand. 530 Men die every year from breast cancer. You know what? Yes, I said. I deserve it.
I was at a cafe watching a barista pour milk when I overheard two patrons in line, eyes wide leaning into each other to whisper, “pancreas.” Pancreas was #10. My card, now so full of holes it draped my palm like a puddle. Ten. I had done it. On occasion I’d take the card out of my wallet just to look at it.
There was work to be done, however. The larynx removal was a gift from my wife. And without that, the lungs could go. These two I missed. But I took to wearing a reporter’s notepad on a rope around my neck. And this made me feel somehow... important. Or like I was a tourist everywhere I went. I’d order the sea bass at Uzoma Dans la Ville and doodle a fish in formal wear to no one’s amusement.
That freebie though, I knew what I was saving that for. Good news, the doc said. My ears still untouched. The brain is out and you’re cancer free. And I looked around the room anew with the eyes I still had. And smiled with the mouth I kept purely out of vanity.
See, the heart doesn’t get cancer. The eyes almost never. Ears neither. All that is truly important remains, I suppose. To look. To listen. To love.
It wasn’t easy, but after some careful calculations I decided to keep my skin knowing that nearly a half million people a year get melanoma. That’s on the outside I thought. Cancer can’t hide there.
And besides, think of the wind. Think of a new pair of socks. A hot hotel shower. Think of your hand in mine as Gustavo shakes his head, No No No, again!
JUSTIN LOWE is a family man living, working, and writing in Western New York. He writes short, plain language poems and stories that record a specific moment in time. He calls these witness marks. Justin is inspired by the natural world, people, complex emotions, and the passing of time.
