What’s Scaring Me? - a poem I wrote about my Melanoma journey.

Bantam1 2 hours ago

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What’s Scaring Me?

Before the Doctor even spoke, I thought I knew her answer,

Then finally she said the words, “I’m sorry you’ve got Cancer.”

All on my own with no support - thank you to Covid!

I should have asked her questions, but you won’t guess what I did?

As the knife went in, a second mole being removed,

I spoke about the weekend, and how the weather had improved.

Then outside, and in the car, I didn’t know what to think,

So I stopped off at the nearest shop, and bought alcohol to drink!

I’d waited 2 long weeks to finally get results,

Yet now I was panicking, and handing out insults,

To those that I love the most, and whilst trying to hide,

Those feelings that I bottled up, all on the inside.

So much care and support, I couldn’t ask for more,

But one Friday night I found myself lying on the kitchen floor.

Tears, anger, questions, ‘what am I supposed to do?’

There are so many things, that nobody tells you.

In the past, I’m sure, I would have been just fine,

But these days there’s so much that you can read on-line,

And in this modern Google age, the information there,

Serves only one purpose, and that purpose is to scare!

Another two weeks pass, and I’m back to hear some more,

The scars had finally healed, and no longer were they sore.

The surgeon shakes my hand - he’s not meant to have done that!

The melanoma? 1.1mm, that’s practically flat!

But in terms of this disease, the danger is the spread,

Could it have travelled to my neck, my arm, or to a leg?

Would it travel and then settle, there in my lymph nodes?

Looking for a home, like those no fixed abodes.

A biopsy was then offered, “it’s up to you to decide”.

There’s nothing to consider, my wife sat by my side,

My son is at his nursery, playing without fears,

He needs his Dad for many, many more years!

Finding the department feels like it takes an hour,

Rain pours through the ceiling like being in a shower,

So hiding behind the mask, I must wear upon my face,

I swear under my breath, at the state of this old place.

Nuclear Medicine’s not as dramatic as it may sound,

I lie completely still as the camera moves around.

Injecting me with fluid, she says, “just a small scratch”,

Perhaps, next time, you could find, a better description to match?

There’s three roads it can travel, but when it’s all been done,

The good news is, the liquid travelled, only on the one.

Once I finally get home, I sit all on my own,

Losing myself in the apps, downloaded on my phone.

For I can’t go near my son, I’m Radioactive and I might...

Oh, I don’t know, but I feel like Peter Parker after that first spider bite!

The day of my op is miserable, wet, and cold,

A sign of these times, that I have no hand to hold.

Waving to the car, he doesn’t even glance,

An unreturned wave, I never stood a chance.

He doesn’t understand, he is only four,

But I needed that wave today, more than anymore.

I ignore the elevator, and take two flights of stairs,

Because now with Covid everywhere, no one ever shares,

I press the buzzer, hand sanitise to be sure,

Then a cold in ear thermometer, is what I must endure.

Finally allowed to enter, I’m shown to my ‘bed’,

“You’re first on the list, get ready”, is what the nurse then said.

I’m asked a lot of questions, my mouth is really dry,

I laugh and I joke, but inside I want to cry.

I’m wheeled in to theatre, everything’s in place,

“Just a small scratch”, a wry smile upon my face.

As the cold liquid flows, a certain sense of relief,

That in all those around me, I have every belief.

That’s the last that I remember, until I suddenly awake,

Bright lights! Thirst! Pain! For fuck sake!

...I’m offered a drink, to be sucked through a straw,

And after two injections, I’m not so sore anymore.

As I try to get comfortable, and have many a short doze,

I recognise a nurse from before, mask no longer under her nose.

I’m wheeled back to the ward, and I’m still lying prone,

When the nurse’s first words are, “shall I pass you your phone?”

I’m given water, as much as I like from a jug,

And a hot cup of coffee in an NHS mug!

I clapped for our heroes each and every Thursday night,

Had a rainbow in the window before I knew my own plight.

Our heroes are so modest, they don’t like to boast,

But I now know for a fact, they make the worlds best buttered toast!

Now lying in bed, exhausted, and unable to sleep,

I feel a numbness, a discomfort, and a strong desire to weep.

For again I am faced, like so many folk before,

With the wait for my results, could be six weeks, could be four.

It’s this time that’s the struggle, when there’s nothing you can do,

Except cross your fingers and touch wood, or buy a rabbit’s foot or two.

It’s all that you can think of, when you’re awake and whilst you dream,

Walking under ladders, on cracked pavements, and everything adding to thirteen.

But tonight I lie awake as there’s something I can’t foresee,

For I don’t know what the future holds and that’s what’s scaring me!

Thirteen days later, yes, that is all it took, and there’s no escaping the irony, whichever way you look,

That number that was also, within my previous verse,

Isn’t it supposed to hold, some unlucky curse?

I’d done the nursery run, fuelled on caffeine,

About to eat my breakfast, or so that it would seem.

Then my mobile rang. I went to see,

An 0800 number? Sales, it would be.

I ignore it, start to walk away,

I don’t need it, whatever you say,

I’ve not been in an accident, where I wasn’t the one to blame,

And whatever the question, the answer’s still the same -

No! Wait, hang on. This happened before,

When the hospital rang and I chose to ignore.

So I take the call, my heart is racing,

Calling this soon? The worst I’m contemplating.

“Your Surgeon here, how are you doing?”

Small talk, toing and froing...

“I’ve got some good news”, finally the point of the call,

It’s gone, I’m clear, they’ve got rid of it all!

I say my thanks, sit down, eat my food,

Just waiting to establish, some kind of mood.

I’m stunned, elated, relieved, want to cry,

The first time I say, ‘I’m all clear’ there’s a tear in my eye.

Phone calls, texts, Messenger, WhatsApp et. al.

Beep, ping, buzz, “I’m delighted for you, pal!”

Later I take a shower, at last I feel clean,

For months I’ve been tarred by the cancer unseen.

Tonight I smile for real, not because I must,

But I’m truly happy, first time since August.

That’s when I first discovered the mole,

Now, all sewn up, not even a hole.

I can’t fault our heroes, their rainbow’s brighter than most,

For tonight I raise my glass, and dream of freshly buttered toast,

The hot mug of coffee, the smile on their face,

Seen through their eyes, blue masks still in place.

So I thank them all, for being the best they can be,

Losing our NHS, is now what’s scaring me!

Will it come back? Will it happen again?

No one really knows, moles still remain.

All of them exposed, to the sun and to it’s burn,

Is each one just poised, waiting for their turn?

But I’m in good hands now, I know that I am,

So, ‘Cancer, get tae f***... ya bam!’

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What’s Scaring Me? - a poem I wrote about my Melanoma journey.