Post-op Eroticism
By Tracy Rothschild Lynch
You’re gonna need to use condoms
My oncologist is about sixty, handsome, fit in a golfs-on-the-weekend way. His windowless office is tidy, desk arranged like the beginning of a board game. He has bright blue eyes, which I trust immediately, and wears wire-rimmed round glasses. Diploma credentials confirm his intelligence. Still, his statement has thrown me.
For what? I ask.
For sex. His eyes are serious. White doctor-coat makes them shine. I haven’t even thought about sex—what with double-mastectomy-open-chest-wounds and all. My bandages are still tight, for God’s sake. Images of pus-filled drainage bags still vivid in our lines of sight, my husband’s and mine. I’d had two on each side. Liquid flowed out of me and gathered in clear plastic bulbs. Mike and I have just now said goodbye to the rituals, to our daily homework: measure the pus in each bulb, hope for less each day. In paper grids, we recorded. Described the colors of the liquid pools. Challenged ourselves to entertain the nurses with our descriptions. Strawberry Shortcake’s hair. Bay-breeze on the rocks. Day-old chicken broth.
I couldn’t reach my drains, so they were my husband’s chore. Do dishes, carpool the kids, empty your wife’s post-op pus down the toilet. Then, each day, as the hazy summer sun started sinking, he gifted me colorful pills to make me forget to worry. He tucked me into my pose—on my back, arms crossed gently on propped pillows. In the groggy morning, when I awoke from my vampire sleep in the exact same position, we began again. Good morning. How’d you sleep? Let’s drain some pus.
So when Dr. Blue Eyes cautions us to use a condom, all we can manage is an awkward chuckle. Hilarious. Besides, I don’t even have a uterus, I remember at that moment. I tell the doctor my revelation.
It’s not for birth control, he says quietly, as if to soften an oncoming blow. It’s to protect your husband.
From? I wonder aloud.
From your toxicity. His bright eyes avoid mine. He stares at the board-game desk, contemplating his next move.
Huh. My toxicity.
Outside, in the greenhouse-suffocating July air of our minivan, we let the laughter rain. Ha! Sex?! Yet as I click my passenger-side seatbelt, I predict this will be the only time we talk about it—our sex my body my scars my womanhood my desire my everything. The forecast floods me with doom.
Tracy Rothschild Lynch has written poetry and creative nonfiction for more than 20 years. She holds an MA from Virginia Commonwealth University and an MFA from Queens University of Charlotte. When not writing or reading, she plays mediocre tennis, watches movies, and divides her time exploring the surrounds of her home in Glen Allen, Virginia and in London, where she currently lives with her husband Mike and a handsome one-eyed Shih Tzu named Fergus. She’s the proud mother of two young-adult, smarty-pants daughters. Tracy’s favorite thing is teaching. In addition to creating and teaching online creative writing courses for adults, she has worked with more than 200 teens in the past ten years, helping them find confidence and voice in their writing. Tracy recently completed a memoir about her mother’s sudden death; is finalizing a collection of flash essays exploring the “micro-moments” of breast cancer treatment; and is working on her first screenplay, which explores the quirks of southern small towns and the power of strong women.