Two arms. Two legs. Ten fingers. Ten toes. Not a temple.

And yet at this precise moment in time, utterly responsible.

This is the body that duplicated or replicated a chromosome. And on that very chromosome there lies a fault in a gene.

This is the body that may be harbouring some autoimmunity to pregnancy. That is untrusting and inhospitable, unlike the mind that steers it.

This is the body in which the blood flowing through its veins connects me to my son. Puts me in the running to be a donor.

This is the body carrying an organ that I can only hope will be the one that helps my child.

Just one body. That from the outside is 5’7″. An average build. Pale skin. Size 6 shoe. Ordinary. And yet from the inside has the ability to end life and start life. And maybe, just maybe, fix life.




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