His torso scars are light — no longer purple, faded to near-white — and we have long learned to make light of them as a way of counteracting the heaviness we might otherwise carry, born(e) by the reasons for their existence.

The under-navel scar that runs downward from belly-button to pubis was the result of an emergency surgery in 2013. The one above it, running in an upward line from navel to sternum, is from unexpected complications during what was supposed to have been a routine laparoscopy two years later.

In February of this year, we thought they were going to have to crack his chest open; instead, they cut a slash across his neck and dug in downwards to remove a mutated parathyroid growth that had grown to the size of a fist and was nestled behind his heart.

This ever-growing collage of intricate Frankenstein cut-and-patch work was added to a few weeks ago: a diagonal slash across his fuck muscle is a result of having surgically attained a new organ*; the double-V line of staples on the opposite side marks the site where his dialysis port used to be.

Clinic Day #3, 14 Days Post-Surgery

Walking from the lab to the clinician’s office, he ruminates on his scars.

“I am starting to feel,” he says with a sardonic twitch of his lips, “like that guy from the table game Operation.”

“Well,” I inquire with a smile, “is that better or worse than being a FrankenSmotch?”