THE BATTLEGROUND
Sandra Dunn ~January 2008
The mound didn’t look any different that morning.
There was no indication anything extraordinary was taking place deep underground.
No warning bells, forerunners or omens alerted the surface dwellers to possible homelessness.
Winter’s frost numbed the senses so that the instruments probing its depths did not arouse suspicion.
The mission was carried out with military precision.
Only faint tracings were left behind to mark the invader’s path.
I sat, outwardly quiet, bravely sucking it up
as my right breast lapsed into a coma.
Crushed cup, immobile, too late to run.
“You’ll hear sounds like a staple gun,
Sorry Hon, I know this is taking a while.”
I smile. “It doesn’t matter now, it’s dead.
You’ve killed it.” Creeping dread.
Not the family trend I wished to set–
first place in the ladies cancer race- and yet
not too upset, or so I thought.
D-day, Friday the 13th. Not superstitious,
a slight disquiet about the fate that
led me to that phobic date. Assured of
just a wee removal, I gave worse-case scene approval
to lop it off. There’d be no harsh accusing,
It wasn’t something I’d been using.
I heard my grandmother today.
I don’t know where her voice came from.
I will teach you to swim, she tells me.
I will hold your head above the water.
I am slipping into oblivious slumber.
Her voice becomes an echo in a rain barrel.
I know I will not sleep the sleep of the dead.
She will not let me fall under the sea.
Still intact, I sighed relief, naïve and happy.
All too brief. A lymph node got into the act.
Chemo then became a fact. Meltdown.
Reactors weakened, pea-soup chemo fog
sent me tumbling in a murky bog.
Thoughts forgotten at every turn. I yearn for clarity
when I can remember what it is I need to do.
I am so disconnected.
Bald is beautiful, except when it’s your heart laid bare
as friends depart, no longer there,
last seen in the obits, battle lost. Dammit!
Can’t obsess. Must progress.
War is hell, and after a courageous battle, Taste Bud died.
Its partner, Smell, in sorrow sought to hide.
Food wrapped in prayer, arrived to feed those at the wake.
I thank the Lord for those who baked, or offered out a hand to take.
Radiate to eradicate, must attain perfection.
Poor boob, tattooed, marked for life.
Serves you right for your defection!
Thank God, last zap, I’m done like dinner.
A whole lot wiser, and a wee bit thinner.
At last, it’s past. No more will the Red Devil’s
lust be fed. No more daily tanning bed. Day to revel.
Confusion intrusion! Freedom’s illusion. I want to cry.
Why can’t I fly these walls and halls where I waited,
prayed to leave? It’s my reprieve. I must believe.
Will I be safe without this place of dedicated grace?
Can I cope without these Nightingales of hope?
When “What if” sashays in to play.
sometimes she’s hard to chase away.
Uneven breathing. With prayers bequeathing
love and peace to those who stay within, I step outside.
It’s been a rollercoaster ride.
No longer on a battleground, the mound
rests, weary, scarred, but sound.
Renewal! Easter! Pentecost!
Dear Good Shepherd of the lost.
Look up! Behold my risen dead!
Chemo curls now crown my head,
and words escape my unclogged pen.
Life is heating up again.
