Everything Is An Emergency

I recently wrote about being silent for an entire week after having a cyst removed from my right vocal cord—a fascinating bit of microsurgery that involved intubating and paralyzing me, so I could be oxygenated without moving any part of my larynx, while a rigid scope allowed the ENT surgeon to dissect layers of my vocal cord away from a fluid-filled cyst; if the cyst had ruptured, the surgery would’ve likely been a failure. 1 During the surgery, my surgeon, Dr. Sugamaran, had his assistant shoot photos through the scope, because Dr. Sugamaran knew I’d want to see my own insides. The cyst, yellow and dense in comparison to the pearlescent pink tissue around it, looked like a small golden egg that’d been incubating in my voice box—like a secret I hadn’t been able to tell, made flesh.

Unfortunately, the cyst wasn’t actual gold, 2 though I can’t be 100% sure since no one would give it to me. I asked, because I’m a doctor and a scientist, and also because I thought it’d be neat; doctors and scientists are gross about keeping fleshy things in little jars on display, but the powers that be said no. Something about medical waste, biohazard, blah, blah, blah, a lot of bad arguments. I countered that I grew the cyst, so it rightfully belongs to me—if you make it yourself, you own it, barring other contractual agreements—but apparently medical purview subscribes to the doctrine of “finders keepers.” I’m going to complain on a Press-Ganey survey, if I get a chance. It’ll have to go under “other comments,” since there isn’t (yet) a section specifically related to the confiscation of one’s organic bits.

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