Cancer’s not a journey, it’s a slog,
The media says fight to be “top dog”;
I’m being me, my mutilation’s fine,
I just can’t be a health freak all the time!!!
Whilst I look slightly changed, I’ll jolly on,
So why are you embarrassed -that’s just wrong?
Your fearing re occurrence cramps my style,
Could fashion be one boob, once in a while?
The sorrow gets me…
The medics tell me I will cope,
With mixed reviews, there’s always hope!
The ones I love are there for sure,
And time, I’d like a little more…
We can’t go back, we’re never able,
To bring our bargaining to the table,
I would be good, and maybe better,
This girl’s a goer, if you’d let her?
I won’t demand to stop the pain,
The vomiting, or surgery drain,
I wanted to write about end of life and for me this is how I see it. My father in law and uncle both died of prostrate cancer and I wish they had seen my family grow up, but then I don’t really believe they are that far away yet…
You know surely how hard I felt your going,
That when it came, I couldn’t feel a thing,
The unsaid words, like unpaid, left still owing,
And yet also impossible to bring…
What if it comes back?
I asked, The doctors eyes fell low,
Best not to think about the past,
The future’s where to go...
But what if this lump’s it again,
How do I know we caught it?
He said, best course is to refrain
From thinking more cells bought it.
I need to feel I'll cope next time,
That I’ll spot that its there...
That you won't inject orange slime
And shave off all my hair…
To not ask how and hope for better,
Arms easier in a buttoned sweater,
To find a hat to go in bed,
And answer doors with covered head,
To eat even when feeling ill,
(An empty stomach’s an acid pill)
To look for bras without a wire,
And hope they’re ones you can admire.
To dress up well on clinic days,
Like it’s a party, a social phase.
To massage scars until they move,
To keep a good tune…
