Hello everyone,
I hope this post finds you all doing OK? My thanks to folks who have provided feedback and encouragement regarding my last poem called It’s All in Your Head. This feedback is very much appreciated.
As promised, please see below, my next poem called Well which I wrote in May 2024 just after receiving my diagnosis of a T3 oesophageal cancer which had spread to my right clavicle lymph nodes and was deciding where next to colonise.
This poem juxtaposes my previous experience of being taken to Lourdes in southern France whilst at secondary school in the hope of a miracle cure for my inherited visual impairment compared to my current situation with my diagnosis of incurable cancer. It also contrasts the idea of a miracle being granted through faith and my perceived lack of it compared to the potential miracles on offer through the use of chemotherapy and immunotherapy treatment and modern-day precision medicine.
My poem does not aim to disrespect anyone’s religious beliefs but rather tries to articulate my own experiences of processing the idea of a miracle through the opposing vehicles of faith compared to medical science.
You may also pick up on a refrain in this poem, ‘Metastasize that miracle, incurable - the group I’m in’. I’ve used this to highlight one less empathetic and unhelpful comment I received. No doubt, many of you have had an experience like this too from a very small percentage of medical professionals. I say small percentage because in my experience, the majority of medical professionals working in the field of oncology are amazing, compassionate and dedicated. Sadly, though ‘it only takes one match to burn a thousand trees,’ as the saying goes.
Another theme covered in this poem is the cosmic lottery which we all face from both a physical and emotional perspective when dealing with the various diagnoses handed to us at various points in our respective journeys. For me, trying to stay ‘well’ meant drawing from my ‘well’ of past memories to make sense of what was happening to me now alongside the ‘well’ of different drugs given to help me fight my cancer and stay alive, are all inter-mingled in this piece.
Also featured in this poem is how it feels to have to manage the day-to-day physical demands of the treatment and its side effects combined with the need to respond emotionally very quickly to this life-limiting disease (not possible, I know). This all sits next to a desire to get on with my life and get back to work.
A key influence for me when writing this poem is that of the late, great poet, W. H. Auden and his poem written in 1940, entitled Lady, Weeping at the Crossroads. Like me, the lady is seeking meaning to what has happened to her. If you haven’t read Auden’s poem yet then I’d recommend it to you.
Anyway, on with my next poem Well – I hope you enjoy it / find it helpful:
Well
I remember those Pyrenes promises
Canting chants that filled the air -
Candle-lit processions filled with bobble-hatted penitents.
“Immerse yourself in this mountain spring
From holy waters, hope may bring.”
But twice it was said, my childish faith was weak.
Was it all on me, what could I do when nothing seemed to happen?
No burning bush or blinding light, no blessings there to fathom.
Metastasize that miracle, incurable - the group I’m in.
It doesn’t really matter if its genetics or its sin -
“We need to make it clear to you; we’ll manage what we can.
To chart this battle’s progress, is now the only plan.”
Feeling dizzy, feeling tired, feeling sick and feeling wired.
This is where my boat is mired.
As with cancers of the body so are cancers of the mind.
The hands that we are dealt can often be unkind.
And though our truth is difficult to chart this journey from,
So bitter is this well we drink, it’s never really gone.
But do these cloaks I choose to wear, match the masking for my mind?
Or have those windows shattered leaving shock and fear behind?
I cannot move that quickly through this cycle of my grief
But I guess you’d like to skip each phase – please hurry, make it brief.
Metastasize those miracles, incurable – the group I’m in.
Now it doesn’t really matter if its genetics or its sin.
To theorise a treatment, let’s try and make this work -
Re-write my self-destructing code within this endless murk.
But being resentful is exhausting,
And being philosophical is so boring.
Just being will do for me for now.
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I plan to forward my next poem to you regarding my ongoing journey in two weeks’ time. This next one is called The Paranoia Battle which I wrote whilst in the middle of my chemotherapy treatment back in August 2024.
Till then, take care,
Twin Castor
