Sign of the Crab

Today I file my 400th post on this blog and I am running something quite different in honor of the milestone. The Sign of the Crab is the title of a collection of poems written since 2005 with respect to my battles with two cancers. These poems are dedicated to my family and friends, who were solid in their support and concern, and my health care professionals, many of whom I cannot name. I share them with others in hopes that they might help during the tough times of trying to deal with the dread disease.


ONE EIGHTY ONE OH ONE

Cancer makes a man wonder if his legendary luck had run out.
When the doctors agreed that my vacation cruise would be allowed,
That question weighed heavy on me. Six months had passed –
Six months during which most all my luck seemed gone sour.

Stepping out of the limousine this morning, outside the boat dock,
I saw a penny, Lincoln luckily looking skyward, and pocketed it.
A full day of rest and food – pepperoni pizza and asparagus sushi –
Led me down to the ship’s casino to enjoy the midnight tumble of the dice.

Two visits to the crap table, two strong runs of the dice, perhaps
Twenty-five minutes of time, and I added one hundred eighty-one dollars
To the morning’s penny, knowing for certain the luck is there for the future.

Silly, isn’t it, that winning a few dollars would make me feel so good?
Of course cancer has taught me that anything, anything at all that
Feels so good -- and feels so alive -- cannot, by definition, be silly.
August 2005


OILY TEARS

Oily tears dripping from both eyes and filling the eyelashes
With a crusty residue is the current side effect from chemotherapy.
Not at all like the salty water normal tears would resemble,
But more like canola oil ready to fry some fast food.
Never can they warn you which effect will come next
As each case and each patient is different and unique.
Funny that I will complete my chemo crying all day and night;
Only the future will decide whether they are tears of joy.
October 2005


ONE WEEK BEFORE WINTER

One week before winter, late December, and I’m just turning sixty;
Fourteen months after the completion of cancer and chemotherapy.
Now in the midst of a first bout with shingles, itching, angry and sore;
With the long winter season about to begin, my skin is afire.
With one side of my body looking like a relief map of Manchuria and
With both feet still numb from the battle with cancer, I stride
Into my seventh decade full of excitement and confidence.

Confidence and joy beyond all logic MUST be something that having
Two beautiful loving granddaughters can help provide for you.
December 2006


MONDAY MORNING AND I HAVE CANCER

Truly it must be sinking in as I awake for another Monday Morning
And the first thought on my checklist for the day for the week for forever
Is ‘Monday Morning and you have cancer’
Wasn’t it nice when cancer was something someone else had?
Two years ago I faced and defeated one cancer; then last
December I thought shingles was my next and biggest challenge
And I approached it with confidence
Now as my third grandchild, first grandson is on the way
I know I must find the fight in my heart to defeat cancer
Again
February 2007


FOUR-LETTER WORDS

Four-letter words are blunt,
Earthy, to-the-point and by
Acclamation they are to be
Under control in polite society
Subject of silly jokes that
‘Work’ and ‘soap’ are some
Folks’ four-letter words
But the blunt harshness
Of the unmistakable sound
As each little word echoes
Up the ear channels until it
Rattles and records in the brain

Today for the second time
A doctor swore at me
Using more than four letters
Convincing me that six letters
Should be the measure
Of blunt hurtful words.
Oh how I wish he had
Said the old standbys like
‘Shit’ or ‘fuck you’
To me rather than the
Real swear word

Cancer


TWO NEW TUMORS

Once I had no tumors at all until two winters ago when
I found one in my colon, logically through a colonoscopy;
Underwent surgery and a major round of chemotherapy
Until three doctors told me that I had won:
Told me that like John Wayne I licked the Big C.

Now I have two new tumors growing inside me
One I found in the prostate, logically through a biopsy;
Tomorrow I will have my options listed for me.
Another surgery perhaps, one with nasty side effects,
Or perhaps they will fill me with nuclear seeds
To try to kill the insidious cancer cells in my prostate.

But I have doctors for that tumor, like I did for the colon;
A battery of doctors to diagnose, to organize, to operate,
To plant seeds of radiation, to put me back on harsh chemo,
To turn my world upside down in another attempt to put it right.

Only I know about the third tumor, perhaps the deadliest one;
Only I can diagnose and only I can do the surgery,
Only I can prescribe and only I can do the motivation:
Cancer of the heart and soul-- raw fear – that can only be treated by me.

I never knew how strong I had become until the night
I had to be stronger than I ever thought I was two years ago;
I must find that strength again wherever I stored it away.
I know I must have it here somewhere and I know I can find it.
The operation must be a success and I must again be the victor,
Pledging that I will defeat two more tumors
Forever.
March 2007


NOIA KNOCKS

Noia knocks often now, since the second cancer,
And when I fail to open wide the door,
Noia tends to scratch at the wallboard
Or tap on the window glass, trying again.

So far he has been rather easily resisted;
So long as he knocks and scratches and taps solo
I should continue to be strong. Noia has no
Capacity to bang the door down alone.

If he ever brings his twin, they might be able to,
Together, if they work as they usually do,
As a pair.


SEVENTEEN MORE STAPLES

Two years down the road past colon surgery,
Healed in body and almost healed in mind:
And now another seventeen staples hold my belly together
With prostate surgery completed and a second cancer defeated.
Each staple pulled feels like one more hair being tugged out,
Several fewer yanks with several fewer staples than last time,
Hardly enough staples for a retired teacher to bind a test for one last class.
For a man who has always enjoyed and excelled at collections,
The staple collection after two major surgeries could be complete.
This one left shorter scar but a longer upcoming memory.
June 2007


WHAT WE GET USED TO

Funny what we get used to and how quickly we adapt
Gas prices rise to three dollars one year
We all screech and complain as the prices drop
Until the next year when we head for four
And we brag about the three twenty nine sale price

On Father’s Day I learned about the word ‘hematoma’
When one burst through my healing surgical incision
Mopping up the blood, I called the surgeon
Next day I was taught how to pack the hole in my abdomen
With ten inches of quarter-inch ribbon of gauze
Forcing the strip into the new navel hole with a q-tip

Two weeks later summer has a lot of the feel of winter
Poking my gauze with the q-tip I am getting pretty good at it:
Funny what we get used to and how quickly we adapt


BORROWED TIME OR A GIFT?

If my first cancer had been given another year to fester
I most certainly never would have had the second cancer:
We would have had a different conversation, the surgeon said.
One cannot have further cancer after one is dead.
In fighting this second cancer I have wasted too much time
In worrying about future cancers –
I have wasted even more time in
Thinking that I am living on “borrowed time.”

Borrowed? Since borrowing assumes some intent to repay,
And since I am not interested in ever repaying or refunding this time,
I will no longer call it borrowed time.
Since I live in gift time, as I now intend to call it,
I intend to enjoy it daily and live it to the maximum.
Fall 2007


I STILL DANCE

As another year comes to a close, one with cancer,
And with retirement, and rejection, and change.
“How are you doing?” seems to be a
Good question now, and one I answer
With a short list of actions:

How am I doing?
At sixty I still dance while I shave
And sing in the shower, and smile
And laugh and love and live
And make lots of future plans

Yes, I still dance
Every day, I still dance
November 2007


RADIOACTIVE SMOKE ON THE WATER

At the cancer care center for my first radiation treatment, I was arranged
On the table for a scan to place me perfectly before the zapping began.
After the scan, I lay still and heard the nurse adjust my position, saying
“It will be five, six minutes; really, less than five” for the treatment.
That is shorter than several songs on my iPod, I thought, including
Smoke on the Water or Light My Fire. I spent my five minutes
Listening to a memory of Deep Purple in my head, time passed:
Only thirty-three more Long Songs until my concert is finished.


THROUGH THE WINDOW

I had arrived early at the cancer care center, drinking juice
And trying to place a few absent pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
Autumn scene, church and water, and trees with goldbrown leaves
Shining peacefully on a day kissed with full sun.

Called down for my radiation, I went to the changing room,
Slipping into the open-bottom gown and looking out the window.
Bright sun lasered through the tree, half-filled with leaves
Hanging tough far out of season, all the same color as the puzzle.

I could take a picture of the view
If I had my camera with me
And if I wanted to stay there
Another sixtieth of a second.


CATS AND SHOES

When I took my first CAT scan it was one, alone, not in series:
Lie down, relax, try not to pay too much attention, all finished.
During my radiation oncology I get a CAT scan each day,
Prior to treatment, making certain I am in the same position daily.
Three tattoos, one below the navel and one on each hip,
Guide the technicians pulling me, towel and all, left or right.
Day one involved working the three dots; the next session took
Four or five pulls and a couple of tugs to get me situated.

Now I walk in, sit down and recline, close to the right spot,
Getting nearly ready every morning, with fewer adjustments,
Only occasional tugs, quick and ready, making me feel all
Broken in. CATs must be a lot like shoes in that way.


FINAL RADIATION SESSION;
FIRST MEETING OF FRIENDS

On that long list of ironic effects, my radiation series has yielded
A new friend, Tom, a few years older and fighting the same symptoms.
In my third week, he began his regimen and we began to speak of
Cameras and photographs and our lives outside the clinic.
A gift of some magazines, some questions about wives and children,
Finally a plan: my series over and his nearly so, we will meet
At a restaurant, not a clinic, with our wives, to enjoy steaks
And conversation and friendship and health.
As I left after my final session he passed me a gift:
Hand-scrolled and hand-finished, an ornate and beautiful
Cross, now hanging in a place of honor in my home.



BENT BODY WITH SMILE

Bent body folded into a wheelchair, probably seventy, mostly
Gray, including hair, complexion, clothing, and expression.
Head down, knees drawn up to her face, arms around her legs,
With her feet bunched on the seat in front of her right side.
Her husband, very quiet, pushed the wheelchair through the
Door of the oncology department, gave the nurse a name;
He sat down behind her to wait for the call, still quiet.

Time passed, they waited while I waited, I was called.
Forty minutes later, my appointment complete with good news,
I went to the treatment room to have my port flushed.
Simple process, nearly painless, always quick and easy.
Waiting, I saw the couple straight across from me,
Still gray, still quiet, as the nurse approached with results.
“Numbers are up,” she beamed, “you don’t need a shot.”

With the words, a rainbow returned to the woman’s face,
Smiling, her husband giving her a hug, she reached to the nurse.
Squeezing her hand with both of hers, saying “thank you,”
Their joy lit up the entire treatment room.
Best wishes, I thought, sharing the joy of holding off a cancer.