A Close Reading of Joel Brouwer’s “Tumor”

I imagine the speaker of this poem is in training to be a brain surgeon. Though it seems

they are currently operating on a brain, their lack of confidence and comfort with profanity

suggests that they are still a student. While a doctor’s job is to help people, it is easier for the

speaker to imagine this person as less than a human being in order to complete this graphic

procedure. They compare this person’s scalp to the lid on a pot of stew, for example. I have one

at home, and while we always keep our dishes clean, those lids always take some damage

whether it’s water, heat, or oil. I would take it as an insult then to have the skin on my head

compared to such a mundane kitchen item.

The speaker also refers to this patient’s tumor as a “fucker.” I am sure if I had a tumor in

my head, I might also call that thing a little fucker. After all, surgery is a big deal and only

happens when somebody or something fucks up. In this case, it’s that tumor. The speaker’s foul

language thus feels comforting and relatable. Doctors and surgeons can often seem far too

clinical to have a heart to really understand your situation. While the speaker probably doesn’t

call the tumor a “fucker” to make the patient feel better—as if they would even be conscious of it

—nonetheless the professional and authoritative barrier between doctor and patient is dissolved

with that word.

This must be the speaker’s first time performing such an operation as they had absolutely

no clue what the color of the tumor would be: yellow, green, blue, red, or gray. This lack of

awareness is clearly not the result of apathy however, as this person has looked toward hospital

equipment, literary resources, and even their own dreams for the answer. The colors the speaker

imagines very starkly contrast the clinical vocabulary which they use, like MRI, encyclopedia,
quiz, and interns. In the end, ultimately the tumor is white. Not what the speaker had expected. If

anything, what the speaker had least hoped for: the most boring and unsaturated color there is.

Because the speaker is so disappointed—even jaded—with the result, they are eager to

wake this patient up so that they don’t have to handle the laborious task of writing this poem,

describing this tumor, all on their own. Now, instead of verbally assaulting the tumor, the

speaker takes to the patient, calling them a “bastard.” Lord knows how this doctor might speak to

their patient once the patient is finally conscious and able to hear and react to the speaker’s

thoughts.