It has moved from one structure to another. It started small, a single mutation. A slip- up in copying, pasting, and creating. One mutation which spiraled, cloned, and took over. In its early days, you couldn't see it. It worked as a background process, letting you continue on with your life. Wake up, exercise, brew a fresh cup of coffee. You went to work, you came home, you kissed your wife, you went to bed. Rinse and repeat, all the while, it worked. Inside of you your cells are becoming dysplastic, no longer fitting in with their surroundings, and not caring about sticking out. They are cells, after all. It has started in your colon. As each day, each cup of coffee, each kiss from your wife passes, it grows. After  some time has passed you start to move a little slower. You skip the exercise, ask your wife to make your coffee, regretfully call out from your weekly meet-up with friends. You go. They are not sure exactly what they see. They speak to you in kind words, giving you hope and encouraging you to follow through with their plan. If you do, they say, we may be able to reverse it, cut it out and cure it. When you leave they whisper together, Wow. What a growth. What a beautiful growth. Isn't the human body amazing? You go home, skip the kiss. Go to sleep. You decide to treat, and when they remove it, its greater than anyone could have imagined. This single mutation morphed into firm, white, angry tissue which has taken hold of your colon, passed into your uterus, holding it firmly where it doesn't belong. Nobody wants to admit that they admire it. After all, you are on their table, unconscious and vulnerable. Your life susceptible to their care. But they feel it. The beauty of a body gone wrong. 

Every thirty minutes the pace maker from a dead mans heart buzzes behind my head. I have come to accept this as a part of my day. The heart has been sitting there for weeks, resting, buzzing, resting, buzzing. The man who used to own this machine, who grew the heart himself from his first day of life until his last, who equipped it with metal and batteries and some other machinery that made it pump and beat, clearing out dirty blood and sending fresh, oxygenated blood all over his body. A bloody detox, thousands of times per day. His heart, his machinery, buzzing in a plastic bin behind me. His hard work dwindled to this. He must wonder where it has gone, his prize. The very breath of his life. He has left it to us to observe, like a child who says to her parent, "Look at me, Ma. Look what I did!" Only, we are no parents. And he cannot exclaim with pride as he presents to us his prize. He is gone. So I work, and I listen. Every thirty minutes, I listen.