XIII Ways of Looking at Cancer

With respects to Wallace Stevens

I.                    Cancer roars through my blood, devouring a life, washing away dreams, eroding hope, creating spaces for new possibilities.

II.                  They arrived with only 2 sets of clothing apiece. At the border, my government stripped away the four youngest children, sending them to the desert with someone who doesn’t speak their language. Cancer is not the only journey that’s hard.

III.                As evening falls, phone calls and emails and doctors’ appointments are past, chores and medications are dispensed with. It’s time to put cancer to bed for the night.

IV.                Cancer, a chaotic explosion of cells, yet treated in a linear process, every actor constrained in their own grey-walled silo.

V.                  The healing, quiet horror of a Cancer infusion center. The terrified about-to-be-transformed line up to be processed like so many cans of tuna.

VI.                The “manners” of cancer constrain. Friends look at the tumor on my face, tactfully NOT asking when it will pop. But I can see the question in their eyes.

VII.              Cancer, the common American Experience, coming soon to a household near you. 2-for-1 pricing available.

VIII.            Daily Specials at the Cancer Diner

·         Chemo

·         Radiation

·         Gut support

·         Exercise

·         Steroids

·         Missing body parts

·         Mind/body healing

·         Acupuncture

·         Anti-nausea meds

·         L-glutamine powder

·         Drastic surgery

An all-you-can-eat Buffet.

IX.                15 years ago I wished my life was more vivid.

Cancer granted my wish.

Foolish mortal.

X.                  Cancer…Can we talk about something else now?

XI.                One morning I awoke to crop circles carving out bald spots on my head. The next morning I discovered I’d rubbed off my mustache in me sleep. In a fit of aggravation over the general untidiness of it all, I shave my head. The good news is I only shave weekly now. And I get to wear a fabulous hat!

XII.              The New Normal, a moving target I’m not all that eager to hit. I liked the old normal better.

XIII.            A game of chicken, played by adults, the chemo and my body race down a treacherous path, each trying to force the other to crash and burn.