Feast of Burden

No. I can’t make it down tonight.

Through the door you

Knock on my belligerence

Testing my lock without a key

Imploring you:

“Please. Go down to greet our company.”

Delicately each holds paper napkins

Within which each hides

Their thin whispers of doubt.

“She’s better than expected.”

Suddenly everyone earns expert degrees

Doctorates of to each his own

Masters of there but for the

Grace of her go I.

Presenting cakes in white boxes

Secured with candy cane twine

Holding buttercream sugary sweet

Carefully crafted roses of pink.

I seriously consider meeting anyone

In an old baby blue chenille robe

Ragged and open,

My sash untied

I stand on the stairs waving goodbye.

The hours slipped out with my hair

From the knot in my head

Until finally the last clasp of

The door closes behind our pitied guests..

Don’t ask if I’d like a hug.

When did love become quid pro quo?

Kisses of dessert the price of a peach tart.

Clearing the table from the ruins of the night

Imagining Vesuvius and the

Bodies frozen in the flows of time.

Shoulders slump and I rock forward

Over my flattened chest.

Tired as a rag doll tied again and again

Stitched blue thread under my

Frilled little girl dress

Too short to cover this body

Underneath left a mess.

My torn head bowed in

Gratitude for advice:

Talk of cures and tinctures,

Beautiful fans of turkey tails cures

Sipping marshmallow teas

All my thankfulness

flows like champagne

Out of a magnum and into a glass

The shape of a queen’s breast.

I can still hear you slapping your thigh

Distant music about over-sold stories.

Hysterical scorn defers to look at me,

Your cheek down on my lap I stand up

Leaving your face on the old gold sofa

Its brocade brambles emboss your cheek.

I hate you in a moment.

My slippers slap the stairs

Punishing the floor boards

Just like a mother’s hand.

Upstairs the bedroom mirror stares back

I laugh along with her tight jaw —

My face looks uncooked and raw

Open the oven and turn on the gas

No not tonight I find a way

To stay and give this death a pass.

How are you?

Cancer is just one physical brick in the wall after the next, one emotional brick in the wall after the next, another pill, another side effect, another loss. The word terminal to describe an illness that kills it’s sufferer, makes so much more sense now. Not so much in 2015 when I was diagnosed.

The beginning and the end points of many journeys use terminals – they’re structures. Buildings where busses, trains, and planes arrive and depart. It feels sometimes as though walls made of strong concrete and bricks are being erected around me. Eventually, I’ll be surrounded by a cancer terminal. It’s a beginning and and ending all at once. A diagnosis and then an estimated time of departure – there’s uncanny parallels. I suppose that’s why in the earlier stages of the disease the word “journey” makes some sense. Once the terminal is built, I’ll have used every medication available and my cancer will continue to progress. Then someone will say, “we’re sorry, there’s no more that can be done.” and then instead of a place I can take off and land from, I’ll use it as a coffin.

My cancer didn’t include the travel to get to stage four, I started at the end. When I was a kid I read the last chapter of the books I’d swallow whole, first. I hated surprises. I also hated to wait fo finish to know what happens to the characters and if the investment of time for my busy kid’s schedule were worth the words. Then if I all the boxes were checked in my mind, I used tricks to forget that I’d spoiled the conclusion for myself.

I suppose it’s my karmic fate that I’d not have to suffer the stages or have a primary cancer. I’m not sure if this is a reward or a punishment. However, the density of my breasts is as stubborn as I still am an always was. I didn’t like waiting for the morning to come – I’d get up happy to greet every day and go to bed late not wanting to miss anything. I remember staying up way too late to watch adult shows. If my mom was home I’d sneak out of my bedroom and watch tv over her shoulder from the hallway.

Still the daytime and the sunshine make me smile. I’m still grateful for them – so unlike the zombies I feel akin to, perhaps I’m trying to get all the living I can possibly get into one shortened life. I know I am up too late. I know I need my sleep to heal. But here I sit writing late into the wee hours of the morning, waxing nostalgic, eyes watering as I cannot see as well as I used to. I’m grateful I paid close attention in typing class and can still touch type fairly fast. My thought stream is faster than my fingers and at times the beginning of the essay has nothing to do with the end. How this parallels my life, too.

When I’m in the hospital, thankfully not in the past two years, I feel treated as though I want to be there. The doctors and nurses take turns telling me it’s almost time to get out of there. Almost time to go home. Almost time to go back to real life. In the hospital time takes on a very different pace. It’s activities divided by naps. I think I could use a respite from life right now. I’m tired.

But what irritates me is the attitudes of the hospital staff. No one wants to spend time in the hospital especially not with stage four cancer. It’s as though I’m in some swanky spa for which people clamor to get an apportionment to stay at or even to get their name on a wait list.

Yet, at times I relish the care – not having to remember to take my medication on time, not having to clean and cook or do the shopping. Someone else to change the sheets and do the laundry. If there were a good shower to be had, then I could definitely use a respite stay. A nice week to not do very much but lay there, write, watch movies, and due to the pandemic, to not see visitors. The mattresses usually suck, but that’s the price for a few days of someone else taking care of those little things that take so much longer than they once did for me to accomplish.

My residual fatigue from six years enduring the side effects of six prior “protocols,” a.k.a. the oncological/ medical term for cancer treatments, lingers long after they stopped working. Residual fatigue is an exhaustion that never leaves my body. Fatigue undermines the feeling of being rested, even after 12 hours of good sleep.

As when I have insomnia, a generally accepted side effect of having MBC, that second wind I get around 2 or 3 pm has a false intensity to it. Maybe this feeling parallels what it’s like to be a zombie. I’m not a fan of the newer kinds of horror movies. All the fear is in your face – there’s nothing implied. Nothing behind a curtain – it’s all right out in front like a pack of green zombies moaning in limbo walking the earth with a thirst for blood and only half dead. Or the walking dead. It’s unlike death row where one might wait their entire life to die of “old age.” I’m not sure what’s worse: to have the chance to feel everything through the natural end of life or feel none of it and die younger and without the chance to know the gifts of aging gracefully.

With the loss of feeling in my hands and feet comes more losses. The ability to carry a glass of cold water back to bed without an ability to quench my thirst. The parched feeling brought on by drug induced diabetes — a side effect of Piqray. “PIQRAY is the first and only treatment option specifically for PIK3CA mutations in HR+, HER2- metastatic breast cancer (mBC). It’s a biomarker-driven treatment approach, which means that your doctor will test your breast cancer for an abnormal PIK3CA gene.” (us.piqray.com)

With the testing out of the way I was found to have either developed or already had the PIK3CA mutation. Am I supposed to be happy about the mutation? I don’t know how to explain how I feel about it. Because if I don’t have metastatic breast cancer then I needn’t worry about mutating.

• Severe allergic reactions: trouble breathing, flushing, rash, fever, or fast heart rate

• Severe skin reactions: severe rash or rash that keeps getting worse, reddened skin, flu-like symptoms, blistering of the lips, eyes or mouth, blisters on the skin or skin peeling, with or without fever

• High blood sugar levels (hyperglycemia): symptoms of hyperglycemia, include excessive thirst, dry mouth, urinate more often than usual or have a higher amount of urine than normal, or increased appetite with weight loss

• Lung problems (pneumonitis): lung problems, including shortness of breath or trouble breathing, cough, or chest pain

• Diarrhea: I should only be so lucky as I have had the worst constipation of my entire life in the cancer terminal.

In general these last two side effects won’t become a problem for me, but high blood sugar, also known as Diabetes definitely has come to call.

Why in the terminal cancer building does the name of something get changed so its more palatable? It’s not a lesion, but a type of tumor. Metastasis is still cancer. And the rash hasn’t reared it’s head since I was put on an antihistamine right away. Diabetes runs in my family so I have drug induced diabetes. Every Wednesday for at least the next two months until my next PET scan to see if Piqray is right for me – I go to the lab and have my blood tested.

Week one the blood glucose number equaled 88. Where my blood glucose has sat since I was diagnosed with pre-diabetes about 10 years ago. Diabetes runs in my family, and I informed my doctors of this, but it was something they refused to hear for some reason. As soon as I heard that it could cause diabetes, sugars and carbohydrates were cut from my diet as fast as I could. But it’s not enough; diet cannot control it this time.

So I’m on metformin. Metformin also has side effects. One is reducing kidney function. Of course my blood work shows reduced kidney function, which concerned my oncologists. Week two my the blood glucose rose to about 180 and this last week my metformin was doubled from 250 milligrams to 500 milligrams when it shot up another 40 points in a week. If I were bowling, my game would be improving quite a bit, but I find bowling boring and I find diabetes alarming.

Theres’ nothing all that exciting about bowling. I’d rather be bowling right now than dealing with cancer, and I’d bowl for the rest of my life if i could get rid of stage four cancer by bowling every day. Covid keeps the allies closed so it’s pretty unlikely that I’ll even get to try out such a stupid theory for a very long time.

One morning, I lay in bed and the oddest feeling came over me – I could feel about 10 people thinking about me. My phone went off about that many times. Maybe there’s more to it than we can know yet.

But up until today that healing of the collective love of so many was overtaken. I feel so heavy it feels like I’m wearing cement leggings. I’d love to feel that powerful gift again. Maybe it’s a matter of opening up my spirit. Maybe tapping into it again will lighten things up – I hope so.

I’m Fine, Really

I’m not going to say

“oh you’re so strong”

That you are,

but it’s just one more thing

left on your plate

Without a fork or hunger.

Eating alone,

salting ourselves

Adding my advice

Worth less than a penny.

Freedom comes along

As a hitchhiker sitting

Beside my expectations.

I leave you with a present

A book written by a friend.

Accept a recommendation

As my way of weighing you

Down with another tome

Thick as a tombstone

And as quick of a read.

“Don’t wait.”

A statement under

My name and 1965 to

The year I died.

At least some good

Advice for anyone

Who just might pass

Or come to visit

The leftovers of my spirit.

For paying with respect,

I may as well give back

Something in return.

Donors deliver livers

Like pizzas these days.

So wear your glasses,

If your eyes tire easily

Meet me to discuss the

Old author’s intention.

I’m light with giving

You’re worn down with

Gifts. Our weakness shows

Through cracks and creases

In our faces – they were

Laugh lines once in the life

Before those thieves named

Virus and disease.

Like urban elm roots

Escape the cement

Moving the plates

In natural tectonic fashion

Inflicting damage

To a city street,

or to a bridge
There’s no escaping

what has no warning.

Tripped up and stumbling

Looking red faced and

around hoping

no one saw my fall.

But nature captures our

weaknesses and the tree

pruned and measured

by men with sharp shears
prevention from taking down

the lines in the air

carrying our necessities

through IVs to our houses.

What does us good also

kills us, so I’ve heard.

The tree bent over

in laughter at the unsuspecting

pedestrian who dropped a

bag, sending oranges

rolling down a hill along with her self respect.

Embarrassment rains

unbearable tears.

And how are you, really?

Take this secret,

keep it safe for me

along with all my faith.

But I can’t complain.

How unfair of me to think

about my own pain.

Grateful. Mindful. Happiness.

Take the book as my gift.

It was nothing, really.

Nothing really at all

I confess.

Insomniac: Stage IV

Morning yawns and stretches its arms  
To part the curtains of night.
Tired midwife to light from
From her expectant horizon
The earth inches towards her morning.
Clean, cool fingers weave threads
Of sweet perfumed wisteria and more
Unnameable long forgotten blooms.
Clean and combed through dew damp air.
Buds nodding on their stems,
Draw blood from my veins with thorns
Like cat claws after a scare.

Suddenly clouds burst and showers fall
To save dry backyards and crops
Now cut away from the view unguarded
From natures reach over treetops.
Lost years and fences already raised
Desperate for mending and tattered.
Puddled earth evicts worried worms,
Plucked by late rising birds from their
Broken homes.

While in my solitary confinement,
Within an escapable white picket fenced
Yard, I wave farewell to school busses
And to the workers who clean up the world.
Alone to remember cubes and corners
Push pinned photos, plaques of platitudes,
Email boxes and bustling buildings
Where tight schedules and bright slides
Bore like radiation into the heads of
Departments of the thoughtless and benign.

My wooden porch now a port of call for
Rain long overdue for such late afternoons.
I’m stuck in an everlasting April spring day.
As sprinklers timed soak the lawn
The sun’s last rays motion with
Long, scolding fingers at
Now unknowable faded faces
Trapped like tonight’s fish for supper
In this morning’s papers.

Laid out on a communal table
Where wisdom and innocence
Convene to discuss the current
Events of still births and deaths.
Hands engaged with wild gestures
Waving forks and spoons for effect -
Interrupting pointless chatter to flatter
And cut meat from a fatted calf.
Everyone silenced by politeness,
Knifing right through the heart of the matter.

The evening’s news flickers
Behind the puffery of shades
Hiding shadow boxes inside windows.
Like a sober fly in a glass of whiskey
Wet wings legs spinning drowned
The hands of its god take it down.

I walk with solitude as she unwraps
Her arms thick with compassion
Beckoning me inside for consolation.
Using one wave to cast away
Anyone who might see me crying.
We sit together on a dark park bench
Watching every creature under suburban
Skies that all fit on a single broom stick.
If no one bothers then no one counts
Things yet unseen, like angels
Atop a pin head. Yet we must believe
That stars still sparkle until the dark unveils
Who’s home and left behind
To sing unearthly cries of grief.

Arched branches bow green
Soft leaves shake and flow
From willows left weeping
While night whispers to me:
Please save us all.
As the trees fade to black,
Wind whips at my face.
From the fringes, howls
Break into my mind.
I can no longer breathe
hidden and weak
In the between
With these heavier things.