From Thursday afternoon Maths lessons I remember geometry. My body has become a map of dimensions one, two and three. The day before the operation, when I looked in the glass, I saw my symmetry for the last time. Both nipples could be teased into excited raspberries. Now I am lopsided. Medieval painters transformed the Madonna breast into a globe where the Christ child suckled. Now my three-dimensional globe is sliced down to a one-dimensional line, an infinite series of points stretches where the globe had been, but, angrier than a line, the scar has two dimensions, width as well as length. To either side the scar— true representatives of the first dimension— dots. These tattoos were not chosen in a parlour from a template book of daggers and celtic knots. They act as markers for the radiographer to measure up and burn away my cancer. The radiation and the chemotherapy
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1/18/2021 10:00:05 PM # 1.0.0.397