This poem, though inspired by some disease that requires I become prostrate to the big grayish pallor of the gaping mouths of machines, represents otherwise the first of several metastatic nods to national poetry month. And, understandably very much inspired by my own internal struggles: doubts in the treatments, one that causes chemo brain, causes degradation of my body, causes me to want to seek out other therapies.
There’s no cancer Mecca where everyone faces east at a specific time of day to pray. If your words are true, come sit with me and share your prayers. Else, please don’t say you pray as a good way to design an end to a conversation you’d rather not have. If I can handle nearly every night in the hospital since thanksgiving except for this last week, it’s okay not to pray or say you even think about it, but maybe you do. So, my heart says, “leave it alone and don’t look a gift rabbi in the mouth.” But I can’t.
I’ve received so many amazing letters from people who read my blog or found me through another online channel like my Etsy shop, YeuxDeux Vintage, or on Instagram or Twitter or Facebook. They read about my diagnosis and my current life and find common ground, and I’m honored to communicate with people who were touched enough by my life to personally reach out. I appreciate their candor and I am especially humbled by the emotional outpourings of some of the communications I receive. Unnecessarily, their email begins with an apology for a “stranger” so openly sharing their experiences with me. But are we really strangers?
In which our heroine finds herself clutched in the monster’s filthy, razor sharp claws, afraid for her life. Introduction: The scripting process begins and ends This narrative slowly opens and possibly took several years for the writer to realize the finished script. Editing the story of a life continues beyond publication, past the timeline of […]