Timothy A. Clements | Hannah Nolan
The doctor told me that culpability lay within the dark recesses of my pituitary gland; I could die at any time.
Perhaps the size and severity of the lump protruding from the base of my hairline, perhaps if I had gotten it checked, then maybe I wouldn’t be in this predicament. Surely it wouldn’t have spread to my brain and lungs and blood. I have little time to reflect.
Mom is worried, but mom always worries, and dad too. They have always worried. When I first left home they called me every night for nearly a year. Luckily, I was far enough away that they never visited. Instead they called. Changing my number fixed that.
I have a brother. We have never been close; he’s much older. We don’t speak. As a kid he and his friends made fun by picking on me; calling me names, forcing me to do things, laughing at my size. I was a very small boy. That changed in tenth grade.
Perhaps my growth of two feet in fourteen months could have been the right clue. It was certainly not ordinary, but only temporary; the pain that is.
In small towns like the one I grew up in, accurate diagnostic medicine is not the norm. At least in my experience. Later, after moving to the city, my condition would be discovered. The lump in my pituitary had caused me to grow at an extremely abnormal rate. My diagnosis; something I can’t pronounce.
All things considered, I like being more than seven feet tall, so do the women. The secondary health problems are definitely undesirable, though I probably shouldn’t dwell.
Hopefully I’ve lived a good life. Surely mom and dad think so. I hated telling them I was sick. They have a caller identification feature on their phone.
I probably should have kept this from them; really no point reconnecting with them now. It would just be cruel really, but I have little time to reflect.
I think I’ll go to the beach, maybe drive up the coast. I could sell everything and jump from motel to motel and meet interesting people. I could drink and eat whatever I want. I have no time to outgrow my clothes. In fact I’ve lost weight; I’m the best I’ve ever looked, thanks to my condition. Women seem to like it. I hope I don’t lose too much.
Maybe I’ll get cremated and have my ashes tossed from the deck of a small boat into the Pacific. That would be nice. An eternity in the ocean isn’t so bad, is it? Of course there is the question of who. Perhaps mom, and even dad, perhaps they will deliver me to my ocean grave. Not my brother though, he was mean to me when we were kids; he and his friends used to beat me.
Then again, if mom and dad come, they’ll want to reflect. I certainly don’t. I think I’ll just rest for now.