I was looking through some blogs, and one titled Cancer, Baby caught my eye. Actually, it was the poem in it, that caught my eye. I have copied it, with the author's name, hopefully I am not being naughty in putting it in my blog, but I felt it hit the nail right on the head. I realised the other day, that I have been going through treatments for cancer for almost 2 years now. In fact, I looked at a picture of myself right after Nadia was born, and then looked at a more recent one, and I can see all of the aging I have gone through. Sigh.....here's the poem.
Try being sick for a year,
then having that year turn into two,
until the memory of your health is like an island
going out of sight behind you
and you sail on in twilight,
with the sound of waves.
It's not a dream. You pass
through waiting rooms and clinics
until the very sky seems pharmaceutical,
and the faces of the doctors are your stars
whose smile or frown
means to hurry and get well
or die.
And because illness feels like punishment,
an enormous effort to be good
comes out of you --
like the good behavior of a child
desperate to appease
the invisible parents of this world.
And when that fails,
there is an orb of anger
rising like the sun above
the mind afraid of death,
and then a lake of grief, staining everything below,
and then a holding action of neurotic vigilance
and then a recitation of the history
of second chances.
And the illusions keep on coming,
and fading out, and coming on again
while your skin turns yellow from the medicine,
your ankles swell like dough above your shoes,
and you stop wanting to make love
because there is no love in you,
only a desire to be done.
But you're not done.
Your bags are packed
and you are traveling.
-- Tony Hoagland, Sweet Ruin
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