A cyst grew on my stomach.
Sometimes I squeezed pus out of it.
It was bothersome, sitting beneath my belly button, begging to be burst.
But it didn’t hurt.
So it was a long time before I scheduled a doctor’s appointment.
A minor surgical procedure removed it.
A year later the cyst was back.
This time I was in jail.
Two correctional officers drove me from the county jail to the Boston Medical Center.
A chain was wrapped around my waist.
My hands were cuffed and connected to the chain around my waist.
My feet were cuffed too.
I took baby steps as I walked through the hospital lobby.
A woman asked me what I had done.
The correctional officers removed the cuffs when we entered the exam room.
I lay on a hospital bed.
When I awoke the cyst was gone.
Years later it grew back again.
This time the doctor said, "The pathologist is going to test a piece of the cyst. We will call you in a week with the results."
After week the telephone rang.
"Ms. Wright, we need you to come in."
I sat diagonal to the doctor.
He looked through my medical record.
Then he turned to me and said, "Ms. Wright, you have a rare form of cancer."