I don't go to doctors. If a part falls off, I try to stick it back on or I kick it under the couch. My entrails, though, have been fighting to leave my body through my navel, and my entrails are winning. I push back, but they insist.
Then this week my head started spinning � it's spinning now, like I'm drunk without alcohol, seasick without the sea � and I started imagining ruptured or strangled guts and the poisoned blood squirting through my brain.
The clinic, it turns out, is clean and full of friendly women. They smiled and poked me in the belly and X-rayed my skull and looked way into every hole in my head. And my head, as they showed me on the screen, is simple; they can fix the thing with cheap drugs.
But my belly, they need to slice open � if it's cool, will I steam? � they need to stretch and clamp and sew. Or my guts will one day leave me, just slip through my loose conjunctions.