Cadaver Kin
SEPTEMBER 9, 2022
I kiddingly asked my doctor if he thought I might know my cadaver, the one whose skin I’m temporarily wearing. The nurse said doubtful, the cadaver skin comes from New Jersey.
I’m from New Jersey I said! So for the past week I’ve been thinking about all relatives, the ones who died these last two years and wondering if I could possibly be wearing their skin.
The list of family members I’ve lost who lived in New Jersey is long. Mostly first cousins of my parents, all in their 80’s.
Obviously I know that donated bodies take quite a while to process and this cadaver skin is not peeled off a dead cousin and put on me. It is treated and processed and closer resembles a perforated Band-Aid than a piece of skin with a freckle or a mole. But I talk to it anyway.
Harold, is that you? I can’t imagine it’s you, you haven’t cracked one joke. But maybe you’re anxious because you know the skin is temporary or maybe you’re overcome with joy getting to be in California one last time, getting to meet Baby Jude.
Harold, I’m so sorry for this facocktah weather. I know you would hate the humidity and maybe that’s why you haven’t said a single word. And I’m sorry we haven’t gone to the beach, but I really can’t be in the sand or ocean right now. I’m supposed to stay home and just wait.
Next week this piece of cadaver skin gets exchanged for a skin graft. Yet another piece of me will be cut, removed and relocated to a whole different body zone.
Luckily the skin on my inner bicep is silky soft, hairless, and smooth. On Wednesday, a two-inch flap of my innocent inner arm will be moved to just below my throat, where the volcano used to live. It will replace the temporary cadaver cousin I’ve been wearing. It will be sewn by the best plastic surgeon in Los Angeles, Dr Handsome.
And hopefully in the couple weeks following, I will heal up, the stitches will dissolve and only some faint scars will remain. They don’t bother me. I have many scars. Reminders of my resilience.
Once healed, I will be thrilled to be able to wear my necklaces that I love so much and triple thrilled not to have that shameful cancer volcano bubbling on top of my skin.
And then a few days after surgery I’m due for another infusion of the clinical trial drug.
I feel rushed and overwhelmed but this is how it has to be. It’s not a slam dunk procedure. All done in between my infusion schedule, so I don’t get kicked off the trial. Crazy.
So—my plan is to TRY. Try to get thru the surgeries. Try to show up at the infusion center. Try to let my friends take care of me and help. Try not to lose my mind with all the sitting around waiting. Try to push thru all the feeling not so good. Try to get through this next phase of breast cancer-killing.
My goals are simple: get through surgery, heal, finish editing my legacy book, produce my book, orchestrate an open studio art sale and sell a bunch of work to make room for new work. Paint and create as much as possible, get the new variant booster shot, start going to small social gatherings, travel to see my nieces, travel to see my family in Florida, travel to see my son and daughter-in-law up north and spend as much time as I possibly can with my grandson. It’s an ambitious list but it’s a list of somebody living life. And that’s what I intend to do.