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A Piece of My Mind
September 22/29, 1999

What We Are Made Of

JAMA. 1999;282(12):1112. doi:10.1001/jama.282.12.1112

Where I place my hand when my wife and I make love, the surgeon's knife will soon slice. The skin will split. Drops of blood will bead on the wound's edge like little rubies. A saw will screech. A mallet will clang as the surgeon drives the silver prosthesis into raw bone.

While my wife is in the OR, I will drink dark, bitter coffee in a crowded room as I await the surgeon to give me good news. I will remember the next few days with fierce, glaring images but, for my wife, they will be obliterated in the haze of narcotics.

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