I Missed Myself

I was released from the hospital the following day, and spent the next week listlessly lolling around my apartment as my scars slowly healed. The pain soon subsided, and although I felt better physically than I had in months, I fell into a deep depression. Dr. Griffin had assured me that the cancer had been completely eliminated, and he told me that testosterone injections to restore my hormonal balance would begin after my follow-up examination in a few days.

Living alone, with no close friends or relatives nearby, I had been too ashamed to tell anybody about my loss. Life no longer seemed worth living. I must have been starved for human contact. But most of all, I missed myself, the man I used to be. For the hundredth time, I pulled her card out of my wallet, only this time I reached for the phone and punched in her number. She answered it on the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Is this Angela?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“Jonathan.” It occurred to me that she didn’t know my last name. “We met at Gibson’s last week. You gave me your card.”

“Of course. How are you?”

“Pretty bad.”

“When can I see you?” Her voice was firm, businesslike.

“I don’t know. I don’t even know why I called you.” Suddenly all the feelings that I had bottled up came pouring out. She just listened as I sobbed my story to her over the phone.

“Where are you now?” she asked.

“In my apartment.” I gave her the address.

“I’ll be there in half an hour,” she said.

I hadn’t shaved in almost a week, although my beard was hardly noticeable. That’s what happens when you have your balls cut off, I thought morosely as I scrubbed my lean body in the shower and shampooed my long, thick hair. I was barely finished dressing when the buzzer rang.