It started at my naval, shot down to my groin, and then the jungle burned for five days. Like water on an oil spill, piss only added fuel to the fire. On the sixth day I made an appointment and on the morning of the seventh day I finally went to the doctor.
The flood came on a Tuesday in May. The cramps thundered and then the blood poured out effortlessly, like Spring rain. I heard Lars come in the door just as I lost consciousness.
I did not cry. Not at first. I wouldn't let myself react fully until I surveyed what was to be lost, like a realtor taking inventory after a hurricane. I stood in the center of the room for a minute, steadying myself, biting my tongue to keep from shaking. Then I slowly, deliberately removed every article of clothing and stood before the full length mirror.
I went to Jamaica, among other places in the region. Luckily, I kept a journal, for now I can not be sure of anything--what happened or did not. I am losing in bits and pieces now, not in the singular blaze of glory I assumed. I am visited by and am terrorized by nuns. It isn't a bad way to go. I am lucky. But I just wish I could be there--to find out the answer to the trivia question that everyone wants to know. Soon I'll be an official member of the least exclusive club in history. Lofty ideas for a liquefying brain.
