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Show CHRYSALIS PAGE 17 of my left arm. He scratches some notes on the chart and puts it on the nightstand. There is much information on the chart. Whatis most interesting is that he has written something about my left arm. Should 1^ tell him it' s my right arm they're fixing, I wonder drowsily? I tell him. He looks at his watch, clears his throat, and smiles. "Of course," he says. He hides his embarrassment well. Doctors don't know everything. The operation is over. I can't seem to find my voice, and my throat feels like I swallowed a box of cotton. They didn't have to do a skin graft after all, but they painted me with iodine from ear to knee just in case. Now I am bandaged from neck to elbow. All this because of one small spot. One small, dark spot and I am alien. I am gone. I feel like someone else. Like Job, I walk upon a snare, waiting to be caught. I am sleepy. They come in and take my temperature and blood pressure readings, first at fifteen-minute intervals, now at ha If-hour intervals. Whenever I shut my eyes I swim in a fog of nitrous oxide and pentathal. The sea is scarlet and unbelievably brilliant. Scalpels and hemostats flash. The melanoma looks like an eve. floating in a glass jar. What an |