An Open Letter to my Tonsils: I Miss You, Please Come Back
Post tonsillectomy, I remember waking up. I was young enough to still be at my first house. The nurse told my mom I looked so peaceful when I slept. I got you removed because I snored loudly. My parents could hear me from their bedroom across the hall. At least, that’s the reason I remember and I haven’t bothered to fact check.
When I was in elementary school I told my friends that I was going to be getting rid of you. Jeresy said she kept hers in a jar. I wanted to keep you, but never got the option. I never saw you again, but I guess I never saw you in the first place either.
I miss you, though. You were a part of me, despite me not knowing it. It just takes a little aging for us to learn about ourselves and it’s unfair I had to lose you before I even knew about you. You were the first part of me that has been taken away.
I am not the same person I was when I was nine. I mean that literally and metaphorically. From my hair, skin, and nails. All of it has changed. I lost parts of me I didn’t need, parts I had to lose. I realized how much I took these parts for granted the first time I had to learn how to chew with a new gap in my mouth.
I didn’t grow up whole, I am an entirely different body, mashed up pieces of me from when I was nine to now. Regretting the removal of something I know I don’t need. You are up there with my first baby tooth, a molar that I pulled out in art class, and my first hair cut, 12 inches of myself that I gave to someone else.
I want to know what it’s like to grow up with you. To live a life saying I have all of me intact, including something so miniscule.
So I miss you, please come back.
FIlled with Regrets,