Stanzi—Thursday—Tetra-gam-EE-tic Ky-MEER-a

Do you know what a tetragametic chimera is?

We learned about it during a genetics discussion last fall.

It’s some crazy thing that happens to you between when you’re conceived as cells and when you’re a zygote. Somewhere between sperm-meets-egg and embryo. Somewhere between the one-night stand and the trip to the drugstore for the test kit. Somewhere in there you used to be fraternal twins. And you blended. Two into one.

It is not murder or homicide. Even though there were two and now there is one, you are only cells. Even though one of you is missing—really none of you is missing. You are all there. All two of you. But not at all two of you.

You belong this way.

Only no one knows it except your DNA. And nobody goes around looking at DNA—not unless they need to. Most tetragametic chimeras never know they’re tetragametic chimeras. Except you have to know, right? You have to feel that somewhere. That twoness. The split. The schism.

I feel it.

I’m part leader and part follower. I’m part good and part evil. Part complicated, part simple. A human yin-yang. Where are you going? Where am I going? Why are you following me? Why am I following you? Why are we doing any of this?

Test week makes me ask questions. It splits me in two just as much as it always did. Last year they made me do makeup exams because the first time around, I filled the dots in according to how I was feeling when I read the question. A = Annoyed. B = Bored. C = Choleric. D = Disappointed. E = Empty. When I was done with makeup exams, I broke all my number two pencils in half so they could feel how I feel every day.

I’ve dissected so many things—from eggs to a bull’s eye to a mouse, a snake, and a bird. Small animals seem easier to me. Once I hit senior AP biology, my emotions kicked in or something. Or maybe it was the summer trip to Columbine High School that lingered. I don’t know. The larger animals seemed… different.

A fetal pig. I thought I would draw the line there. I thought I’d be grossed out dissecting a fetal pig. I thought about where we got it. Where did we get it? Where does one even get a fetal pig?

A cat. I knew I’d draw the line there. I couldn’t cut open a cat. I have a cat. I feed it. I try to keep it alive with water and food, and I bought it a scratching post.

But I’d cut open a cat.

The scalpel didn’t know it was a cat. The scalpel did what I told it to do. My hands—my hands are not mine some days. They belong to the other DNA. They are my twin’s hands. They’re capable of cutting open a cat and removing its liver. I’m not capable of doing that.

After frog dissection #7, I go to the library and do my homework. I’m the only one there. It’s as if the bomb has finally exploded and I am the only survivor.

Then I go home and cuddle my living cat and watch M*A*S*H. I watch three episodes before I go to bed. The last one is “Love Story,” season one, episode fourteen. Hawkeye Pierce says, Without love, what are we worth? Eighty-nine cents. Eighty-nine cents’ worth of chemicals walking around lonely.

I think of what love must feel like. I’m not sure I know. I look at my cat. I ask it Hawkeye’s question: Without love, what are we worth?

Did you know that the liver is the only organ that can regenerate itself? I bet Hawkeye Pierce knows this. I know Mr. Bio knows. I think Gustav knows, but because he might not, I turn off the TV and go out the back door toward his house. It’s late, but I know where he’ll be. He’s always there. He’s focused on one thing only… and it’s not me.

Half of me is okay with this. The other half is not okay with this. Half of me would follow Gustav anywhere. Half of me would lead. For now I want to tell him about livers.