The doctor is short, on the round side, and east Indian. He looks at me sharply when I describe the pain I feel, makes some notes on his ipad.

He's smart. I mean, you would always hope doctors to be smart. But I can tell. I can see the wheels clicking around in his head, rapidly, many gears. Linking things together, testing solutions in his head.

"Fever?"

No fever. I don't think so.

"Any symptoms of bladder infection?"

No, not really.

"Fever? Are you sure?"

Pretty sure? I feel normal.

He gets me up onto his table, pulls my shirt up. I feel like a slab of meat machinery under his hands. He presses, feels, working his fingers through my soft belly fat.

"How does that feel?"

Not comfortable.

He moved his hands to the other side.

Be careful of my scar, I say.

"Where? Show me."

I yank down my belt. I'm sure he can see the beginning curls of the thatch between my legs. His eyes, sharp, clicking with gears, flick across the exposed length of my scar. I wonder what he thinks about it. He pushes his fingers into my soft belly fat, curls his hand under my waist. It's the most human contact I've had in weeks.

"How does that feel?"

It pulls on my scar, still sensitive after all these years.

It's hard to tell anything around the scar.

"Yes, I suppose it would be."

He lets me get off the table. He types things rapidly on his ipad.

"I'm going to send you for a lot of tests," he tells me. "Normally I wouldn't, but you only have the one kidney, and we want to be sure it's nothing." He types. "I don't want to just pump you full of pills."

I appreciate it. He walks me out, hands me two sheets from the printer behind the receptionist.

"Let's hope it's just muscle pain."

Fingers crossed.

I put the requisition forms next to my bed and avoid calling them for a week.

My kidney area aches. I lay in bed and try to figure out what, exactly, hurts. But it all just feels like meat.

My phone reminds me the next thing I have to do is go get my ultrasound done. It feels like staring down the barrel of a gun.

Maybe if I just ignore it forever it'll be okay.

Or maybe I'll die of kidney failure.

I must remember to bring extra handkerchiefs when I go to my appointment.

.

Rosie.

Before&After