front of her left arm, from pit level to a few inches above her elbow run the scars, one superimposed upon the other, layered—sedimentary scars. Like limestone, they tell a story. The longer scar is the older one, having grown with her from the time she was ten. Her father told her she would be getting bone from the bone bank, and she pictured a metal safety deposit box with a bit of bone in it. “Probably a piece of someone’s kneecap,” he added with a grin, making it sound quirky and mischievous. She thought of her Halloween skeleton costume and grinned back. The base of the shorter scar widens into a slight depression: site of a post-op infection that she understood to be serious when her mother calmly said, “Tsk-tsk,” as she dabbed at the ooze with a sterile Q-tip. This shorter scar dates from the second bone surgery, when she was fourteen. She was her own donor that time.
Mary Rose is O negative, which means she is a universal donor. As such she can donate tissue to any human on the planet, but only someone with her blood type can donate to her. So the second time round, the surgeon harvested bone from her iliac crest—which sounds more important than “hip bone”—thus there is a third scar down there at her “bikini line” that tends to mind its own business unless clipped by the corner of a countertop, at which it kicks up a scintillating sort of pain like a vampire awakened at noon.
The bone grafts were done to repair bone cysts. Unlike other kinds of cysts, which are the presence of unhealthy tissue, bone cysts are an absence: cavities in the bone that fill with a yellowish fluid. Sometimes they contain bone fragments—bits that flake and fall from within, so-called “fallen leaf fractures.” If the cysts go untreated, they can invade the growth plate and you end up with one limb shorter than the other—a limb that will just go on breaking. Mary Rose was lucky and she has the scars to prove it.
•
The funeral director speaks good English. He asks the young air force officer if he would like to hold the casket. Duncan reaches out and takes the small white coffin. His commanding officer is present along with the air force nurse. His wife is still in hospital, and in any case, there is no need to put her through this. Afterwards, he drives to the cemetery with the casket on the front passenger seat beside him.
•
Mary Rose does not dwell on her time in hospital—it seldom comes up unless she is required to enter one. The memory, while vivid, is stored in a separate file, such that were she to have a near-death experience,the repeated injuries and surgeries would not be included in the movie of her life that would flash before her eyes—though they might play as a blooper reel. The whole experience exists outside her personal timeline, because it is an anomaly: bone cysts are ahistorical. “Idiopathic, likely a congenital flaw,” said the surgeon. “That means you’re born with them,” said Dad. “It doesn’t mean you’re an idiot.” Bone cysts are a singularity, like a meteor strike: a good story on their own but unlinked to the main narrative. She was past thirty before an old slow penny dropped: the bone from the bone bank hadn’t come from some plucky donor’s kneecap, as cheerfully shared as a pint of blood. It had been cadaver bone. That may be why the tissue failed to grow with her.
She cannot remember a time before the age of ten when she did not have a “sore arm.” It was normal for her, she thought everyone had one. It was an artifact among her and her siblings: “Mary Rose’s sore arm.” Even Andy-Patrick respected her
sorearm
and would punch the other one. Hot and searing, or cold grey thudding; one kind of pain had more blood and bruise in it, the other more bone. It came and went.
Her first memory of the searing dates from the summer she was four. They had moved from Germany to Canada, and were “down home” on Cape Breton Island in the broad bosom of
Mary Rose is O negative, which means she is a universal donor. As such she can donate tissue to any human on the planet, but only someone with her blood type can donate to her. So the second time round, the surgeon harvested bone from her iliac crest—which sounds more important than “hip bone”—thus there is a third scar down there at her “bikini line” that tends to mind its own business unless clipped by the corner of a countertop, at which it kicks up a scintillating sort of pain like a vampire awakened at noon.
The bone grafts were done to repair bone cysts. Unlike other kinds of cysts, which are the presence of unhealthy tissue, bone cysts are an absence: cavities in the bone that fill with a yellowish fluid. Sometimes they contain bone fragments—bits that flake and fall from within, so-called “fallen leaf fractures.” If the cysts go untreated, they can invade the growth plate and you end up with one limb shorter than the other—a limb that will just go on breaking. Mary Rose was lucky and she has the scars to prove it.
•
The funeral director speaks good English. He asks the young air force officer if he would like to hold the casket. Duncan reaches out and takes the small white coffin. His commanding officer is present along with the air force nurse. His wife is still in hospital, and in any case, there is no need to put her through this. Afterwards, he drives to the cemetery with the casket on the front passenger seat beside him.
•
Mary Rose does not dwell on her time in hospital—it seldom comes up unless she is required to enter one. The memory, while vivid, is stored in a separate file, such that were she to have a near-death experience,the repeated injuries and surgeries would not be included in the movie of her life that would flash before her eyes—though they might play as a blooper reel. The whole experience exists outside her personal timeline, because it is an anomaly: bone cysts are ahistorical. “Idiopathic, likely a congenital flaw,” said the surgeon. “That means you’re born with them,” said Dad. “It doesn’t mean you’re an idiot.” Bone cysts are a singularity, like a meteor strike: a good story on their own but unlinked to the main narrative. She was past thirty before an old slow penny dropped: the bone from the bone bank hadn’t come from some plucky donor’s kneecap, as cheerfully shared as a pint of blood. It had been cadaver bone. That may be why the tissue failed to grow with her.
She cannot remember a time before the age of ten when she did not have a “sore arm.” It was normal for her, she thought everyone had one. It was an artifact among her and her siblings: “Mary Rose’s sore arm.” Even Andy-Patrick respected her
sorearm
and would punch the other one. Hot and searing, or cold grey thudding; one kind of pain had more blood and bruise in it, the other more bone. It came and went.
Her first memory of the searing dates from the summer she was four. They had moved from Germany to Canada, and were “down home” on Cape Breton Island in the broad bosom of
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