I left my hand in the other room. 

That happens sometimes—it just slides off the bone.    

I find my hand in the bed, strangled in a clot of covers. Fingers entombed in linen. I try to reattach it, but once the digits become loose I must leave them for another day. Wrap them in cellophane, tuck them into Tupperware, and slot them into the fridge beside the leftovers. .

The Doctor calls it multiple sclerosis. My immune system is chewing holes in my brain. The Rorschach of an MRI reveals seven lesions: spaces where the myelin sheath peels away from the nerve. This waxy covering sends signals to my body. Tells my hand to grasp the coffee. Prompts my eye to see past my nose. Reminds my leg to complete the stride.

I reattach the hand for my appointment. It might be backwards. I can flex my thumb, but the pinky is gone. I have a vague recollection of leaving it next to the cheese.

“A classic case of peripheral neuropathy.”  The Doctor explains, ogling the chilled hand. When he squeezes, my netted neurons signal the smell of forest and the taste of cranberry, but I don’t get that wiggly finger feeling deep in my brain. That section of glial cells expired last month. “I see this all the time. The right side of your body. It’s just not connected the way it used to be.”  

I dropped my eye in the sink. 

It lands with a wet thump and rolls down the disposal. My fingers trace the gaping hole of my eye socket. If I dig around in there, I can feel all six extraocular muscles. It’s incredible really, that the eye slipped from my orbital bone without leaving any residue. Just a delicate, spongy spot. Baby-new.

“You still have the other eye.” The Doctor assures me giddily. “Many people lead full lives with a single eye. Even no eyes!”  Will I need glasses?  “Of course not. You cannot correct vision when the eye is simply gone. Glasses won’t adhere the retina to the optic nerve.”

If I tilt my head down, it just oozes out, so I keep the eye in the refrigerator and mash it into the socket when I’m bored. Now it’s misshapen and collecting lint. I place it back among the cold cuts.

I left my leg in the bathtub. 

As I rise from the water, steadying my pruned body with my one good hand, and fixing my gaze with my one good eye, the leg slips from my hip. It’s actually quite buoyant. I hobble to the sink, balancing on a slippery limb as I whack myself with the towel. The right side of my body sloughing away.

I hop to the kitchen and force the appendage into the crisper. It’s still there, among the carrots, potatoes, and celery. The makings of a decent soup. I prepare a single-armed sandwich to accompany this entree. Clumsily cutting the camembert and peeling the prosciutto from its packet.

“You just need more exercise.”  The Doctor explains. “Multiple sclerosis can improve with simple movement.”  But what kind of movement?  Should I drag my fetid corpse from the bed to the couch?  If I flail my arm, will I have burned enough calories to warrant a special treat?  Will blinking this eye seed a new one in the socket?

My mouth fell into my soup. 

I realize this is difficult to envision, but it’s really only the right side of my mouth. I lift the spoon to my lips and the metal digs into flesh, the space where my mouth used to be. Lips now bobbing in my minestrone. 

“People talk too much anyway.”  This is The Doctor’s wisdom. “Just use a straw.”  

The left side of my mouth can mumble your name. The lips can twitch into a disturbing smile. They can droll and sputter as I force liquids into my remaining extremities.

There are fifteen lesions now. Glowing orbs blinding my brain. Chewing through the gray and white matter. Swallowing my cerebellum. Masticating my occipital lobe. Now picking through my parietal lobe.

And that’s when my brain flopped onto my book. 

I was reading something now I can’t remember I reach for a vanished memory a first kiss a childhood dog a favorite teacher a date of birth but I cannot find the words the letters fuzz into an inky phrase blurring sentences seep between my fingers and I cannot turn the page.

Marita Mežroze is a single mother, English teacher, and cancer survivor living outside of Seattle, WA.  Marita enjoys food metaphors, collecting cats, and Oxford commas. She is currently seeking representation for her manuscript PICK ME!, an unsettling mixture of satire and horror that explores parasocial relationships. You can find snippets of Marita's haunted cottage, book recommendations, and writing at @the_rainboww_house.