What’s Eating Me (or This Was Hard to Type and Title)

Yeah, I know what you're thinking and yes, I'm looking pretty good in this one.

Clock face all up in your… face…

I haven’t been myself for a long time. I don’t know how to word that a whole lot better, but I’ll try.

Quite a long time ago, my mother had a health scare. Luckily, the issue was caught in time… just. I panicked, then I researched. I figured that the more I knew about what happened and why, the better I’d be insured against this threat. I got my check-ups and apparently, I was in the clear. Despite this, ever since I found out the problem likes to run in some families, I just knew I’d be one of the unlucky ones.

Years later, I was right.

And now I see the inside of a lot of plain rooms with clocks in them.
I see a few doctors.
I fill in a lot of forms.
I make a lot of jokes.
I create a lot of silences.
And I wait. For phone calls, test results, for the receptionist to call my name.
I wait for the right time to tell my loved ones. And when I get the guts to do that, suddenly the information has changed. If my condition improves, I tell myself I can inform people when it’s all over and done with. If my condition worsens, I tell myself it’s not time to burden anyone with such news.

I’ve just been informed that I’m in remission from cervical cancer. Again.

I don’t know how to feel about that or what to do. All I know is that some days, everything tastes like metal and I’ll sick up anything I eat, in triplicate. And then some days, it’s like nothing’s wrong. The other days in between are spent waiting. Not living. Not dying. Just being. Just waiting.

Anyway, I made some appointments and found a thing I wrote the first time my symptoms remitted. Here’s the thing.

A stay of execution,
a sigh of relief.
A sign of improvement
somehow incomplete.

If I’m going to die, I’d like to know why.
I want to live with terms better defined.

Saved from blades,
but not waiting-room charades.
Fears can only deepen
when you’re stuck in a bed you can’t sleep in.

May I trade a subsidy of pain
for my god-given right to complain?

Tell the reaper I’m not here.
Tell the house I have no bones.
Tell my parents I love them
and that I need a minute to be alone.

Formes Frustes – Remission (2014)

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