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Things the Size of Red Pepper Flakes
Joyce Englander Levy
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L*STS: an Essay Daily Happening | About & Contents
Lists | Lasts | Losts | Lusts | Other
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I make a quick red sauce pasta from scratch while the kids are outside playing ultimate frisbee and my husband is fixing a lock. I chop onions; add them to a warm pan of olive oil. Boil water in a separate pot. Add minced garlic to pan. Stir. Add ground beef. Check time. Break beef into small clumps. Let brown. Check when the game starts. Pour in penne pasta. Add diced tomatoes to pan. Stir. Yell to kids, “Dinner’s almost ready.” Drain, pour, check, stir, combine. Yell outside, “Dinner’s ready.” I shout as loud as I can, but my mothereze voice disappears quickly, like a bird call.
I put the game on as everyone washes their hands. It’s already started. I find the red pepper, and I sprinkle a pinch on my bowl and two on my husband’s. We don’t normally eat in front of the television, but America is playing Bosnia and Herzegovina in the World Cup. The boys sit on the floor and use the glass coffee table. My husband and I sit in side-by-side Z-chairs, and we eat from our laps. I eat slowly. I’m not hungry. I’m watching the game.
The camera angle is wide, the players look small, like foosball figurines. A youth soccer coach on Instagram recommended kids watch one player, rather than the ball. He said to watch a player in your position, where he goes, how he moves, when he walks or runs, how he angles himself in preparation. I’m trying to watch the American center-mid. But it’s hard to follow the game this way. The camera follows the ball. The players’ numbers are too small to read.
The first half is nearly over when the momentum tugs tight. I feel it coming. USA scores—Goal! We all jump up and scream. Suddenly, what the fuck? Ow. Ow. Ow. What the fuck? My eye. My eye! Is burning. I’m screaming, but no one can hear me over the cheering. Who even cares about soccer? I’m racing to the sink. I’m on fire. My eye’s on fire. It must have been a flying pepper flake. Breath of fire. I can feel the flake in my right lower lid, but mostly I feel the sting of capsaicin. My eye capsizing. I wet a paper towel and blot and blot. Everyone is now by my side trying to figure out what’s wrong. What have they missed? Why am I screaming and dabbing my face? They’re asking annoying questions. They can’t see the flake. “You’re not helpful,” I yell and run to the bathroom.
My husband comes back with advice. AI is helpful, which makes my husband helpful. I have to flush my eye. Flush it for twenty minutes with cool water. I stand naked in the shower with the hose angled to flush my eye. Water soothes the sting, but I can still feel the flake. My husband says to keep my eye open. I feel the flake, like a tiny acidic contact lens. Enough. I hold my eye wide open with my left fingers, and I shoot the water into the inner corner. I feel the flake disappear. I keep rinsing the compound away. I never even saw the red card.
∞
The deeper I go the more I want to learn. Specialize or you're an amateur, the world says to me from every direction. Today, I feel no matter how organized I am, it isn’t enough. No matter how much I work, research, or write—nothing is finished. There’s a pit in my stomach. A small pit. A little, empty, plumb pit. The second hand on the clock ticks. The minute on the digital clock on the stove goes from 44 to 45.
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My sister, brother and his family are visiting for the weekend. We’re sitting around the dining room table eating homemade pasta with basil pesto and roasted chicken. We’re playing Spontaneous Staring Contest; if you happen to lock eyes with someone, then you’re in a staring contest; the first person to blink—or look away—loses. My nine-year-old son is looking at me; I look at him: our pupils connect. His hazel eyes are relaxed, gentle, confident. My eyes sting with love. I blink.
∞
The doctor says the mole on my check looks like a basal cell carcinoma. She says, “It's tiny. I could biopsy it now, or we can wait. It’s tiny-tiny, and slow growing.” I choose to wait. I’ve learned biopsies leave scars. I’m not ready for a scar on my face. I’m not ready for aging.
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I go for a quick walk down by the river to check on the bald eagles. The lawn is long. Acorns hang heavy on the oak branches. The river is quiet today. The eagle nest is empty. The nest looks small, but I can see it, high in the trees and across the river, because it’s the size of a queen mattress. I scan the trees; I look for movement or a small white orb among the green leaves. I don’t sense the eagle’s presence. I walk back up the small dirt path, over the huge old maple stump, along the back of the barns, and I return to the house. I roll out my yoga mat in the living room. I’d prefer to practice outside, but the cat will be jealous, and I’ll feel guilty for not letting him outside.
I lie on my back in tadakamudra. Movement evolves from there. The goal of practice, no matter what pose I’m in, is to soothe. I hold poses for long periods, feeling sturdy and calm, accompanied by fulfilling breaths. After a few supine poses, I move to my hands and knees, then down dog, then a few standing poses. I do headstand, and I meditate in sukhasana with jnana mudra. I lie down in savasana. I feel nothing, but I sense something. I bolt upright, I lift my shirt, and I see a little brown tick burrowing into my stomach. Even in the moment of seeing her, I still can’t feel her. She’s flat, not engorged. Her eight little legs are swishing like windshield wipers. I run upstairs, find the tick twister, slide it on, lift the tick out, seal her in a bag, take pictures, determine it’s a female dog tick, thank my sensitivity, take a shower.
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I’m back at the doctor. She wants to biopsy the suspected basal cell again. I’ve prepared myself for this. I acquiesce. When you have a lot of—beauty marks—dermatologists stare at your skin under microscopic lenses several times a year. They zoom in on your unique patterns of mole formations to look for deviations. Dr. T injects me with novocaine and then she scalpels cells off my cheek. She places a band-aid on my face and tells me she’ll call in a week.
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Making an appointment for Mohs surgery is as fun as a pepper flake getting stuck in your eye. The small stuff makes my sweat smell like pine needles. I’m on the phone with a soft spoken woman who wishes she could speak to me in Spanish, who I wish I could speak to in Spanish. She asks me where I want to have the surgery. I say, “What are my options?” She wants to know when. I say, “I’d prefer never.” She is losing her patience with me. I’m losing patience with dermatology. I say, “I’m sorry but I’m having a hard time making an appointment for a scar on my face.” I know technically this isn’t what the appointment is for, but that’s what it feels like. “Can you please take the lead here and make this easier on me?”
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I organize the files on my computer; I click, drag, name, and rename little rectangles; I fold the rectangles into little squares. Now I have folders that say Essays in Progress and Finished Essays. This is one of those tasks that’s been scratching at the back door trying to get in.
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Don’t be fooled. The doctor will tell you it’s a small little mole. It’s outpatient. It’s no big deal. Then she’ll numb you, and that’s supposed to mean your nervous system can’t communicate any pain to your brain. But does the numbing itself perhaps instigate a state of danger? Do the axons and dendrites wonder why some part of the body has suddenly gone off-line?
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The last time I was in Dr. T’s office she reviewed my old scars and said, “You don’t heal well do you?” I said, “I’ve been told I over heal.” Bright-pink jagged lines look like wounds traced over with a highlighter.
The last time I left Dr. T’s office, when I was there for the biopsy, I reversed into a pole in the parking lot. I didn’t see it or sense it. As if that corner of my vision had been numbed too.
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Dr. T, a young Chinese American surgical dermatologist who specializes in skin cancer, walks into the operating room with Dr. R, a young Black woman wearing glasses and a mask.
Dr. T greets me and says, "Mohs surgery is slightly different. I'll remove the tissue from
your cheek, and then we'll put it under the microscope right away to make sure we have clear borders. This way we remove as little tissue as possible—since it's your face."
Tears surface and trickle down my smooth cheeks as I nod my head.
Dr. T measures the basal cell carcinoma and says, "Point four by point five millimeters. It's so tiny."
I say, "Can I put on a meditation?"
She says, “Of course.” She steps out as I grab my phone and put an ear bud in my left ear. Her attendant helps me to lie down and lean onto my left cheek. I listen to a healing meditation recorded by my friend Manjit.
Dr. T and Dr. R re-enter the room. The bed is lifted, so they can have my face right where they need it. This first part is quick. She numbs. I listen to Manjit’s recording, which encourages me to release the stress of the day through the soles of my feet. Dr. T tries to talk to me as she scrapes a hole into my face. I picture the roots of the carcinoma shriveled, shallow, and uncomplicated, and I try to disassociate.
After five minutes or so she says," Okay. Hopefully we got it all."
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The problem with basal cells is their roots. They grow like plant roots, and can burrow into ligament, cartilage, and tissues around the nose, ears, eyes. Luckily we caught mine early
and it was slow growing. My husband has tried to convince me to see the bright side, but I don't know how to process a scar on my face before it's even there.
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I wait for the results. I read a book of poetry called Flower Grand First by Gustavo Hernandez. The subject is uncomfortable, important, touching. It's written by a man who came here from Mexico with his family when he was a boy. I feel that he's a good person who has had to live in hiding. I sense the stress and fear the family exists with. I wonder if they get their skin checked regularly, and what they do when they need surgery? I try to think of this surgery as a luxury.
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Dr. T returns and tells me we're all clear. She can stitch me back up. I lie down. The pillows are stuck under my head at an uncomfortable angle that makes it hard for Dr. T to reach my face where she needs it. She asks me to lift my chin, but I can’t because of the pillows behind my head. We do our best.
My face is turned a hard 90-degrees to the left to expose the right side of my face. My neck and cheek pulse with a sharp pain. Dr. T is trying to talk to me about what books I’m reading. How can she talk at a time like this? She pokes my skin with a needle and injects more novocaine. There’s a sheet, with a small hole cut into it, placed over my face and the entire top half of my body, perhaps to prevent blood from getting all over? Or to hide that I’m a person? I have no idea. I can feel the stitches going in. Not the needle—but the thread—tugging my face.
Dr. T says, “Are you in pain?”
I say, “My body isn’t happy. I can feel the tugging.”
She says, “But are you in pain?”
I am in pain, but she means, Can I feel the needle going through my skin? I cannot. I can only feel my skin being pulled and sutured. I feel like a piece of soft leather being stitched. I cannot answer no, but if I answer yes she will inject more novocaine and this will only slow down this awful procedure.
Dr. T has a warm demeanor, but she doesn’t understand why I’m shaking. Perhaps if someone would put a hand on my arm, give my skin something else to focus on, something grounding. I tuck my legs in. I’m shaking as if I’m shivering but I’ve broken into a sweat. It’s somewhere between a hot flash and a cold sweat. I’m shaking as if I’m trying to lift a two-hundred pound dumbbell over my head. There is an undulation to the shaking, like my vagus nerve is physically waving for help. The doctor asks if I can be still. I’m trying. I’m trying to stop my eyes from welling over with tears. I’m trying to stop the tremors moving through my body. I’m trying to stop slipping into the present tense. I try to breathe slowly and to tell my body it’s all going to be okay. But I also keep feeling her tugging, tugging with a needle and thread through the skin on my face. Tugging. My face.
I say, “This feels like a lot of stitches for point four by point five millimeters."
She says, “I had to cut it into an american football shape so it doesn’t pucker.”
I say, “So you made the wound bigger?”
“Yes.”
I’m trying to suppress the tears, but a few keep sneaking out. My chin is trembling from a singular point of no return. I’m typically an emotionally neat person. It’s sweet the way I’m trying to contain this excess. Like a little girl who has broken a faucet, and she’s standing there with a little hand over the spicket trying to contain it, and the adults around her see the water pouring everywhere, and they’re trying to fix the leak but they’re not sure where it’s coming from.
When Dr. T finally finishes stitching and cauterizing, she asks her nurse to put a bandage over the side of my face. She removes the sheet that was hiding my head and body, and she places a hand on my shoulder briefly. I see her warm brown eyes through my tears, she smiles, and then she leaves to check on another patient.
∞
Dr. R stays to talk to me. She says, “It’s okay, just let it out.”
I can’t cry harder, and I can’t cry less. I want it to stop. I am trying to slow my breath down. Dr. R places a hand on my arm and it helps. I’m able to regain my composure. I breathe. I sit up. I say, “Thank you.”
I ask her if she’s expecting. She’s due in August. She has one more year of residency and then she’ll go on to be a dermatologist who specializes in detecting skin cancer, but she won’t do Mohs Surgery like Dr. T. It’s too stressful.
∞
Dr. T comes back in. She asks if I’m okay. She asks what I’m doing for the summer. I say I’m visiting with friends and family upstate New York. I ask her, and she says she’s working. I wonder if all of her patients are as difficult as I am. I imagine her spending her summer in the hospital, zooming in on moles on naked bodies. Using tiny instruments, looking through microscopic lenses, removing visible clumps of cells which have gone rogue. I know what she does is rare. The demand is high and acute. Small, painful, life-altering openings.
∞
I leave the hospital, sit in my car, and take a few minutes to acclimate to the idea of operating heavy machinery. I pick up a tiny, prickly pine cone the size of a marble, which I found on a walk with one of my writing teachers in the nature preserve in Biscayne Bay. I check the mirrors several times before I put the car in reverse.
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I pick up my younger son from his guitar lesson, drive home, hang my bags over a kitchen stool. I call my husband; he’s about to pick up our older son from a friend’s, but he’s stuck in traffic. I hang up. My nine-year-old tugs on my arm and says, " Mom, did you know everything has a vibration? Here I'll show you."
He takes me by the hand into the living room. He turns on the amp he recently received for his birthday. He plugs the chord into the amp, and then he places the nodule—that would normally plug into the bass guitar—against my hand. A sound of vibrational static is amplified. He removes the silver nodule from my hand—silence. He replaces it—I sound like a car driving by.
He places the nodule against his own arm and he sounds like a hummingbird.
He places the vibration detector on the low E of the acoustic guitar, the G of the bass guitar, the D of the double bass. Then he makes the carpet sound like a smothered a.m. radio. He taps the wood xylophone, a guitar pick, the small brass weight on the metronome. Each item generates a subtly unique sound.
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My professor, Julie Marie Wade, forwarded the L*sts submission opportunity. As soon as I saw this Essay Daily prompt, a light bulb went off. I have been developing a process for moving my writing from notebook to finished essay. Every morning, I write by hand, and then I type that raw material into a computer file titled the month and year of the date it was written. These files sit in a folder called Months and Years and they are like a gathering place for my ideas, thoughts, and memories. From there the raw material becomes essays, poems, or stories. When I saw the word lists, I realized how several of the short stories and snippets I had been writing belong together. I thought of the chopped onions, the red pepper flake, the tick, the beauty mark gone rogue, the scar, the microscopic lens, the acorns, the pupil's in my son's eyes, the little things that are overlooked and underestimated, which are portals to the big stuff.
Joyce Englander Levy is the author of Pier 40, a chapbook published by Finishing Line Press in 2025. She is an adjunct professor and an MFA candidate in Creative Writing at Florida International University. Joyce has also been studying yoga and meditation since the nineteen hundreds, and she sends a bi-monthly newsletter on Substack called Look Both Ways, which explores intersections between mindfulness and life.
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