Ode to My Onc

Unlike with my breasts, you’ll never see this.

It’s been over four years since I was led, zombie-like, into your office. It was clean, bright and sparkling with an optimism I did not feel.

Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod.

Where has the time gone, Doctor? Remember? I was mummified with fear when first we met. As you well know, breast cancer will do that to a woman.

You told me that I was lucky, to have caught the cancer early on. The cancer. “No chemo,” you said. That got my attention, and then, so did you.

You’re kind of sexy, in an inappropriate, younger brother sorta way.

“Lumpectomy,” you said. “Plus, four weeks of radiation, instead of the usual two.” That, too, got my attention and my fear fog lifted, if only a precious, little bit.

And then, we started talking, like people do. I was delighted, when little nuggets of you came through. Both of us Italian, albeit me, only half. And both with Italian cars — a Fiat for me, Maserati for you.

Grande differenza, ma comunque, vero, dottore?

You’re pretty fucking cute, Doctor. Is it wrong to admit I have a teeny, tiny crush on you? Crushing on your dark, curly hair, your sharp, Italian shoes. A school girl crush. Nothing more. Nothing untoward.

Soon, we’ll meet for our six-month, “touch base,” where, no doubt, you’ll be touching my misshapen breast, with the jagged scar, like a lightening flash, above it. No more than a tattoo, it’s not who I am. Or, is it?

Perfume this time? Whatever, just keep on keeping me alive.

Sherry McGuinn is a longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.