Humor
My Cluster of Parasitic Cysts Meets Your Airline’s Medical Accommodation Policy for a Seat Upgrade
They vary widely, but mine are filled with teeth and spinal columns
Hello, Mr. Airline Supervisor. I’m calling to request a free seat upgrade for severe medical obstacles, per your company’s policy. Yes, I have my medical documents ready and will email them to you now.
What exactly is an “Ovarian Teratoma”? The best way to describe it is, a parasitic fetus-like cyst. They vary widely, but mine are filled with teeth and spinal columns. Yeah, I suppose “ew” is one way of putting it. Anyways, my physician noted on Page 2 that my cyst situation is unique in that I grew not one or two, but twenty-seven.
I’m requesting a seat upgrade because the teratomas enlarge my hips to the point where sitting in a coach seat is unbearable. Sure, I could probably wedge them into a painfully constricting 17-inch-wide seat again, as long as I chugged painkillers. However, my physician warned I could die of infection if even one teratoma ruptured.
No, I’m definitely not making this up. Yes, I understand “just being fat” doesn’t meet your airline’s eligibility requirements, which, I must say, is a very harsh and fat-phobic thing to say. Oh, you’d prefer not to discuss the airline’s stance on fat people? Okay, sure.
But I am a little offended by you suggesting I’m lying about my medical issues. I am absolutely not faking twenty-seven parasitic cysts — a somehow more socially acceptable diagnosis than being fat — to escape flying coach.
Yeah, I’m not surprised you’ve never heard of this diagnosis before. Luckily, I have a lot of practice explaining my medical history to strangers after they scream “lose weight!” at me or slap cake out of my hands because they assume I’m fat rather than a host for twenty-seven parasitic cysts. What’s so bad about being fat anyways? Oh sorry, you don’t wish to discuss “fat politics.” Back to my seat request…
Last time I flew on your airline, the gentleman beside me muttered something about diabetes while elbowing that tricky mid-hip teratoma of mine, which often dangles over armrests, before he stormed away to spend the rest of the flight in the bathroom. This was upsetting, especially since the jab permanently shifted the homunculus’s teeth. Even now, I feel its tiny, sharp fetus teeth nibble away at my kidney
Oh, sorry for switching terms on you just then. A “homunculus” is another term for teratomas, aka parasitic fetus-like cysts. The word originates from Latin and means “little person.” Um, yes, I have indeed received suggestions to diet and exercise in order to “release the little person inside” me. No, I actually don’t find this turn of phrase ironic nor funny considering this conversation.
And no, I don’t think “if only growing a funny bone were as easy as growing twenty-seven homunculuses” is a good joke either. First of all, the plural of homunculus is “homunculi.” Secondly —
Oh, you have a question? Why don’t I get my homunculi removed? Sir, are you also a medical professional on top of being an airline supervisor? Oh, you’re just an airline supervisor with absolutely no medical training? Huh.
Well, if you refer to Page 5 under Surgical Recommendations, a team of experts deemed my case inoperable. Why? Oh boy, this is a long story, but basically the surgeons refused to remove my fetus-like cysts because they worried it was too similar to an abortion. These surgeons were concerned that one day I might regret not having them, so here I am, infested with a cluster of parasitic cysts. Yeah, I suppose the surgical team is entitled to their opinion, though this leaves me with some very serious, lifelong medical barriers.
And here I am, just trying to take advantage of my vacation days and fly to Costa Rica without dying of a cyst rupture because I was forced to sit in an inhumane 17-inch-wide coach seat for over seven hours.
So, how about that seat upgrade?
