Betsy Gallant

Betsy Gallant

Pathology 101

Reluctantly I trudge down the endless halls of the hospital

on an errand to pick up my “slides”—

pieces of glass with tiny fragments of my tissues on them,

proof that all is not well inside my body.

The pathology lab trusts me to transport these slides from one hospital to another

so another doctor can confirm tht my body is sabotaging itself.

The young girl in pathology hands me a fat envelope,

the sticky closure barely holding it together.

I’m dubious about how well the slides will survive

And, seeming to read my mind, she says:

“I’ve got them so well packed in there that you could throw them on the floor and

they wouldn’t break.”

Throw them on the floor, throw them on the floor….

who would want to do such a thing?

But the thought bounces around in my brain

and gradually gains a foothold

like a fertilized ovum finding a home in the lining of the uterus.

At home I study the envelope that is almost unglued.

It’s so easy to release the closure, tilt the envelope

and watch the slides and a wad of reports

tumble out onto the dining room table.

The reports are grim reminders

of the seriousness of my physical condition

and I throw them aside.

The slides are….beautiful.

Like something my lab partner and I struggled to assemble—

wasn’t it just yesterday that we hunched over the black slate counters

in the lab that always smelled of gas from the jets

as we tried to follow the “recipe” for a successful slide

and timidly lit the Bunsen burner.

We often stole glances out the tall windows

to see the wind blow the last leaves off the trees

as the first flakes of snow began to blanket the foothills.

Are you having company for Thanksgiving?

What do your kids want for Christmas?

Our musings caused many a slide to fail the scrutiny of the professor

and we threw them in a large red, plastic container,

listening to them smash against each other.

We’ll try again,

And the next one will be perfect.

The pathology reports say my slides are not perfect,

not the kind of perfect I will accept.

As if I’m the professor now,

I think these slides need to be destroyed,

But there’s no big red plastic box in my house.

I gaze out the big window of my dining room

and see the cars go by on the rough asphalt of the

country road in front of my house.

Perhaps if I could throw the slides with great force on the road,

they would smash into a million pieces

and gradually wear down to sand.

People with dogs and kids in their cars

would drive over the sand,

their minds on a million different things

like soccer games and birthday parties.

They would never know

they were making my disease disapppear

so I can start over

and make the perfect slide.

May, 2005