Things I’ve Heard about It

The Things I’ve Heard about It.

It is a cancer.

It is not a cancer.

You will not die from it.

You will die with it.

It is the cancer you want to have

if you have to have a cancer.

It is indolent. Lazy.

And that strange name.

Long as the name of a Welsh railway station.

Waldenstrom macroglobulinaneamia.

Try saying that in one breath.

Whew.

  • pic courtesy of Wikipedia

Maybe it was the Meds

Maybe it was the Meds.

Maybe it was the meds

but I felt a little trippy

so when the nurse leaned over and said.

we’ll give your cannula a good flush in a minute

I said, O wow! It’s been a long time since I’ve had my cannula flushed

& the room broke up.

Rhianna and Jacob joined in the fun.

It was that kind of treatment room.

Don’t worry.

We all have our heads screwed on

but with the lids a little open

to let the silly in.

At the Blood Clinic

We are sitting across from each other

trying not to stare

looking down at our phones.

There are some paintings on the wall

but no one is looking at them.

Perhaps they are the sort of paintings

that are not meant to be looked at

but are there to establish a presence,

maintain a mood.

Then I notice the paintings,

half figurative, half abstract

in faded denim blue

with black, springy squiggles

like a cat’s whiskers

are not signed.

Perhaps the painter was half abstracted

when he painted them

& simply forgot.

The Message

The Message.

Okay. Okay.

I got it.

I got the message.

No gym.

No hanky panky.

No chasing after

runaway hats

in the park.

No bending down

or reaching up..

Go placidly.

Remember.

It’s only been two days

since surgery.

*pic courtesy of pinterest

If It’s Not One Thing ….

I have a rare blood disorder.

I can’t remember its name.

It’s a long word beginning with W

and it’s not a cancer.

It’s an indolent disease that has taken nine years

to get to the stage where it needs treatment.

I’m having a bone marrow biopsy on Friday

to determine what needs to be done but it will involve

some chemo.

On top of this I’ve had a bad cold which really

knocked me around.

Cold sores galore. Unable to shave.

Is anyone listening ?

And if that isn’t enough I’ve got a lump

on my forehead, a conical angry lump

that makes me look like a Tod Browning freak.

People stare.

Booked in Tuesday with the skin specialist

to have it removed.

If it’s not one thing, it’s another

I wish you all good health for ’23.

*pic courtesy of pinterest

Crack

Crack

Not the crack in the cosmic egg

Nor the crack addicts smoke

Not even the crack in crack, snapple, pop breakfast cereal

but the bum crack

of Mr. Hairy

at the Eye Clinic

when he bent over to pick up

a form he had dropped

his shirt rolled up,

his jeans slipped a notch or two.

Everyone copped an eyeful.

I cracked a smile.

Some tittered.

Mr. Hairy was oblivious.

*pic courtesy of pexels.com

What’s the Big Deal?


  
What’s the big deal about me doing gym three times a week?
 
You don’t need to, you say. Do a little more around the house. Like gardening.
 
Gardening isn’t cardiovascular, I say. It has a lot of health benefits but it isn’t cardiovascular. It isn’t enough.
 
And you’re seeing the skin specialist next week. What’s that all about?
 
Looking after myself, I say.
 
You fuss too much, you say. You even check your car out during the week. I’ve seen you in the driveway, wiping away the bird shit off your car. Birds gotta shit somewhere.
 
Sure but it eats away the paintwork.
 
It’s becoming a fetish, you say. And now you’re off to gym, I suppose?
 
I treat my body like my car, I say. It’s the vehicle I travel through life in.
 
 

The Blue Curtain

I promise to corroborate, she says

behind the blue curtain.

I promise to corroborate.

Good, the male voice says, then keep still.

She does but her mouth doesn’t.

Any minute now she’ll mention the condescension running down the windows of her van and I’ll try to suppress a snigger,

but just then the doc comes in and injects me behind the blue curtain.
Jeez, I say. I felt that.

Sorry, he says, and you’re bleeding.

But I rally coz that’s what a man poet’s supposed to do.

It’s nothing, I say as I look at it, kind of mesmerized. It’s like that song says.

What song?

You know, Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls. ‘Sometimes you bleed just to know you’re alive’.