microstories
World Peace
by Martine Leavitt
After the shooting, I started getting headaches.
Everyone said it was psychosomatic, at first. And then I had a seizure. The doctor set me up for an MRI.
The technician was looking inside my head, when suddenly he stood up and said what the... He stared at me a moment, mouth a little open, and called in another technician.
The other technician stared at me in disbelief, and called in a doctor. The doctor, he's all annoyed like why are you bothering me, but then he's not annoyed, and he rushes out of the room.
I'm freaking out – not saying anything, but freaking out inside because I'm thinking it must be pretty bad.
The doctor came back in with two more doctors. At first they talk together low, and then louder, and then they were celebrating – cheers and high fives and laughter. I ask Mom what's going on. Maybe they're just happy because they can't find anything bad in my brain? I never thought doctors cared that much.
"This is an important moment," the doctor said to one of the technicians. "Please note the time, and contact the press."
"We've been waiting forever," the technician said, almost weeping.
The doctor took me into his office and explained that they had found something all right, just not what they had expected. He showed me the picture of my brain, and inside my brain a round object – like a big boulder marble, blue and white and green. I didn't realize tumors could be beautiful like that, I said.
"Look closer," he said.
I realized then – and my mom sitting beside me gasped so I knew she realized it, too – that tumor was... it was the World, the Earth, the Globe – complete with blue ocean and brown and green land and white clouds. And I knew – it was as obvious as could be – that my tumor had a name: World Peace.
I looked at Mom, confused. She took my hand in wonder. "My own son?"
She said it as if she'd just learned I had invented World Peace, which apparently I had.
"But is it... what's the word?... malignant?" I asked.
"We don't know yet," the doctor said. "Either way, we've to get it out of there. It's not much good in there, is it. Humankind has been looking for this for eons, and here it was in your head all along."
He said it as if I should be proud, and I suppose I was, although somewhat conflicted. After all, they wanted to cut open my head and take something out of it.
For a while after that, things got out of control. By the time we left the hospital, there were television station cameras and microphones in our faces and a crowd of reporters calling out my name. Mom smiled and waved, even though we barely made it to the car without getting hurt. It was like they wanted to open my head right then and there in the parking lot. We could hardly make it into the house once we were home, because of the crush of reporters and other people. Mom started calling family and friends, to tell them the good news, but of course everyone already knew. Mom made my favorite supper.
When the Prime Minister called, Mom passed me the phone with proud tears in her eyes. I heard from the leaders of other countries, too. Mom fielded requests for interviews – it was obvious we were going to get rich over this. Rich enough to hire some bodyguards. We needed them – paparazzi banging on our doors and breaking in through windows.
It was agreed that the surgery would be scheduled for the very next day. Priority surgery. As we drove to the hospital, people lined the streets and waved at us as we drove by and a cheering crowd greeted us at the hospital. There were cameras with little flags flying from them from all over the world. And a helicopter. I liked the helicopter and thought I might buy one when this was all over.
I was prepped for surgery. They had to keep me awake so I could answer questions while the surgery was going on. My mom was allowed to be there, gowned up. When they took it out, even I had to admit that it was beautiful – a little World, smooth and sweet and alive and at peace... World Peace. Almost everyone in the room left, including my mom who followed the surgeon out of the room, holding World Peace aloft in a surgical pan.
An intern stitched me up.
"Did they get it all?" I asked.
"They couldn't get it all," he said.
So it was malignant. And I admit, hearing that they couldn't get it all, that I might be dying, World Peace went totally out of my mind.
