Elan Morgan is a writer and web designer who works from Elan.Works, a designer and editor at GenderAvenger, and a speaker who has spoken across North America. They believe in and work to grow both personal and professional quality, genuine community, and meaningful content online.

The Last Day Of Our Acquaintance

when SaskPower looks like a urinal

The days have never moved so slowly as they have over the last month. Cancer is a millstone around time's neck, breaking down its pace into minutes that drag themselves forward with all the energy of a sloth on antipsychotics.

It must be this waiting that I am doing. I wait and I wait and I wait. I want them to take my uterus tomorrow; I want them never to take my uterus at all. Each thing I do, each thing I consume, is there to fill in the empty stretch from one moment to the next. All things are knots in the string that lead me to my nearest destiny.

I keep remembering back to when I was kid. Even when I was as young as two, I was annoyed with my corporeality. There it was, and it seemed so unnecessary. I felt that I was not properly glued to it, and I would fantasize about losing a finger to an axe or a leg to a car. Now, after all this time, I get to lose some of this meat machine I would have avoided had anyone asked for my take on it. The how and the when and the why are so unpredictable in life, but somehow it seems fitting that I should be scheduling the removal of my uterus through little tubes.

The growing melancholy in which I am swaddled makes less and less sense as I move closer to my as yet undeternined surgery date. Part of me looks forward to being free of this piece of my anatomy. No matter what birth control I was using, every month was a fretful waiting game to see if my period would come, and the terrible burden of the to-spawn-or-not-to-spawn question has made me angry for years. Being rid of this organ filled with so much undesirable potential is a dream I have had for a long time, but now that it is here and much less of a choice than I would have had it be, I am sad. Suddenly it feels like saying goodbye or going to a funeral.

I hope that, on the day of the surgery, it is raining and grey outside and that the taxicab that picks me up is shiny and black. I could be distracted by the tragedy and romance; I could wrap myself up in the ease of mental descriptions. I would think words like saturnine and suffused, and when the cab driver turned around to ask directions, I would think leonine and untidy. The seat would be spent and the clouds would be teeming. The phonemes would cradle my thoughts against the day's events. I would be a character. I could have another name.

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