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.
Pisetsky DS. What We Are Made Of. JAMA. 1999;282(12):1112. doi:10.1001/jama.282.12.1112