Gall

I was 19 when they removed my gallbladder. Plagued with stones, not cancer, thank God.

I don’t know why I asked to keep it. Curiosity. It’s legal in my state, so the surgeon approved it without fuss and my organ remained mine—albeit in a different container.

I have this buddy, mortician in training. Stef. She agreed to preserve my gallbladder. Wet samples practice. We laughed at the absurdity. An hour later, I was walking out of her university lab, my gallbladder drifting in a jar of formalin.

This little jar of tissue fascinated me. I’d sit in my dorm room and, later, my apartment, and stare at it. Give the jar a gentle shake and watch the way the organ moved; an arrhythmic drifting sort of dance. It mesmerized me. This turned into a kind of meditation.

My father died when I was 23. Unexpected, traumatic. He had an immense presence in my life. My only parent, since mom was out of the picture. Now he was gone. No more. Never again. I had trouble coping. For weeks, I struggled with the loss. I’d drink and I’d cry and I’d pace my apartment. And, as the pain and grief continued to haunt me, my little meditation began to evolve. I’d cradle the jar, my gallbladder floating, unbothered, in its little bath. And I talked to it.

"My dad’s gone. I miss him so much.”

Life returned to its normal pace. I still missed my dad; but I returned to the jar when I needed someone to talk to.

“I had this customer call today at work.”

“I was thinking we should move. I’d like to live upstate, I think.”

“I can’t believe she won The Voice.”

Everything. Nothing. We talked about it all.

“I’ve got a date tonight with a woman I met at the show last weekend.”

At 26, Margot and I moved in together. I hid the jar from her. Margot and I talked, shared our lives, but I couldn’t share this. She wouldn’t understand; I didn’t understand. And I couldn’t give it up, either. In the late hours, Margot already in bed and me, up late working or watching TV, I’d retrieve the jar from its hiding place and talk with it.

Margot and I didn't last. Two years into the relationship, I stood on the porch of our home—my home, now—and watched as she loaded her possessions into a friend's van. She wanted more from me; I didn’t have more to give.

The van pulled away, into the waning evening light, and Margot was gone from my life.

Returning to my study, I opened the bottom drawer of my desk and pulled the jar from its hiding spot. I give it a gentle shake, smiling at its little jiggle. “I’m going to be okay. I’ve still got you.”