Despairectomy

The specialist presses my belly, crinkling my paper gown. She snaps off her gloves. Sits down facing her computer and sighs. I raise my head from the examination table. So…am I a candidate? She sighs again. Glides the mouse around the desk. We can cut you open, she says. But are you sure you want that? The recovery time, the visible scars? Yes, I want it out. For the first while, friends would still invite me places. Even though I’d stare out the window, cry in my soup. But it’s been years. I can’t keep a job. I can’t function. So, we remove the pit of your stomach. She pauses and looks me in the eye. And then what about the lump in your throat? Where does it end? I look down at what remains. Climbing out of this funk has already cost me an arm and a leg. I’ll know, I tell her. When all that’s left of me is a smile.