Five years ago, I was diagnosed with breast cancer and “given” two to five years to live.
I sure hope the biatch who condescendingly uttered her pronouncement when I said I’d try to cure it myself and wouldn’t engage in any of the three allopathic options she presented:
- cut (surgery)
- burn (radiation)
- poison (chemotherapy)
reads rant-ology! because it’s just about the five year mark and I’m still lifting weights, doing yoga, writing, hiking, snowshoeing, cooking, kissing, eating, crying, arguing…..breathing…..reading, playing guitar, playing cards, brushing cats, feeding chickens, laughing, ranting and smiling. In other words: living.
Hanging with the aliens—as I fondly call them—is a bit like living with tiny time bombs just under my skin and, yes, one day they could decide to take me out. But not today or most likely any other day in the near—or maybe even far—future. At some point, they may multiply and I may choose differently than I’ve chosen so far. Who knows? But one thing’s for sure: if I had used any of their “therapies” I’d definitely be dead.
I know my own body, thanks, and I listen when she speaks, now and forever. Amen.
Something will kill me, someday, and something will kill you as well. But I don’t make decisions from fear and I don’t make them from my head either, so I’m not going to begin regardless of medical pressure.
Here’s my poem to honor the upcoming anniversary:
Landscape of an Alien Disease
I live with three solid stones
in my left breast throbbing along to my heartbeat.
Some say they’re out
to compose a corpse in my shape.
Dwelling with them
is a bit like winning
the lottery. Others hunger
to confer, consult,
nurture. In infirmity
they only want a good look
at what they don’t want.
It’s safer to rubberneck the rubble
this life has become. The more I open
my chest, my heart to accommodate
their view, I see their breath
flutter shallowly and a quaking develops
as if they spot that toothy crack
of terrain snaking
randomly away from my rock-steady feet,
suddenly eyeing theirs.
Cancer can be
like TV: a cop chase and the perp is pressed
by G-forces back to a time where
he felt his free will like dense cool air
just before being delivered
to the ground & hog-tied with hand cuffs.
Click channels: a muddy flood snatches homes
from their foundations, snorts trees,
starts a rowdy party of festering cars
sadistically sailing past, some red, some blue.
Either way, everyone but me is secure
in their home, snapping off
their sets, rising from easy chairs,
shutting down lamps and heading up to bed.
I’m on the run, the head waters still
rising, the cops on my tail,
slippered feet straddling that crevasse
of twisted scenery
as each second spills
into the next and the next
and no one
can predict a thing.