How do I write a poem about cancer?

Do I write about the needles and wriggly veins and the purple bruises turning yellow; the smiling faces that crumple into frowns when the dreaded word CANCER is mentioned; the stumble of words about miracles and prayers and good thoughts sent my way? The surprise in their voices, “you look so good.”

… but do they know that when I blow my nose bright red spots bloom on the white tissue? That I hold onto the grocery cart for balance? The twist of scarf wrapped so artfully around my head hides my baldness? My life has become scheduled into little boxes on a calendar. Rather than tears, I have questions. Should I keep flossing my teeth; renew my driver's license; subscribe to a magazine? How much time do I have to live?

More doctors enter my world than I have seen in a lifetime. Doctors with sadness in their eyes. Doctors who hug. Doctors afraid to give false hope, and indifferent bastards who say, “You might want to consider just going back to your home in Canada.” They play the survival game called six months to live. When does the clock start? Is it when the cells began their uncontrollable growth, or when I began to cough and a walk in the woods left me breathless? Or does the clock begin ticking on that fateful day when I hear the words, “You have cancer.” Tell me, how do I write a poem about cancer?

“I’m afraid this will be a life changing event for you.” When those words come from your physician, it is not something you want to hear. Cancer isn't one of life’s little storms. It will kill me sooner or later. Do I betray my will to survive by contemplating my death? The thoughts come to me unbidden. They sharpen everyday images and make each day precious. I know this storm will not pass, so I learn to dance in the rain.

Pills in all sizes, shapes, and colors. Twice a day, three times a day, others as needed. Pills for anti-nausea, anti-inflammatory, antibiotic, acid reflux, pain, cough suppressant, thyroid, and constipation. I live in a pharmaceutical stew, spend days in a chemo fog, and I am so, so tired.

Chemicals drip into my bloodstream… to poison my body enough to kill the cancer but not quite kill me. Whether or not it is true, I feel like I am buying time. I look around the infusion room, at other patients sitting in cushioned chairs like mine. Bald headed or wearing caps and scarves, they sleep or visit with a friend. The room is full today… eleven of the twelve chairs occupied. I see familiar faces. We smile and nod at each other, ask how the last treatment went. For a day we become family. We are all here for one reason… because we want to get well, or at least to live a little longer.

This is a poem about cancer.

... P. L. Morningstar
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