The gray Boston light casts the silhouette of a windowpane on the johnny I wear. I hate hospital gowns. The flaps don’t close properly and open to reveal my butt to the entire hospital. Sometimes I cry, and then the nurses don’t make me wear one, but I am wearing one today. The gown bares my skin to the stainless-steel table beneath me. It’s cold. The walls and ceiling are a drab white. I pretend I’m inside an igloo.
The door opens, and eight people wearing white jackets enter. They swarm around me and buzz with interest. Then the doctor in charge reaches out with a liver-spotted hand and pulls my gown up to my chin. I am exposed. He pokes at the scars on my abdomen and penis and talks to the residents. They nod their heads and ask questions and stare at my naked flesh. I know they are talking about me, but they use words I don’t understand. The liver-spotted doctor steps back, and the others take turns poking and staring. They smile awkward smiles, and their hands shake like leaves in the wind.
