The Spread - G.N.

The Spread - G.N.

She's slim, wearing silk pajamas, weak, purposeful,

folding paper towels into precise fourths
and setting them on the side of the sink.

With the economy of the dying she weighs 

the need for each word against its cost to her reserve.

She doesn't want me to see this.

She doesn't want her daughter to see this.

She needs my help.

Peeling back the gauze she says

     This is the spread

and for the first time I see cancer.

Some of it has crawled outside of her

and grows there - a mountainous landscape

the diameter of a dinner plate,

red, yellow, raw, oozing, wrong.

Some of it is tenting up the perfect brown skin nearby.

We work together until it is clean and covered.

I pray to see the beauty beyond the horror.

My prayers are answered until I drive away.

Sitting with the Not Dying - MO

No one knows why she's still here.
Three months without food, two weeks without water,
she has become an anatomy lesson:
dark, fixed pupils in an adamantine face,
the cords tying the bonnet of her skull clearly outlined on her neck,
veins running like mole tunnels over her forehead,
feet blackening.

She breathes.
I hold her hand,
read to her from her own bible,
the underlined and highlighted bits,
in the hope that she hears and finds comfort.
She might wish I'd shut up
so she can finish her business of dying.
I don't know.  I don't know.

Sitting with the Dying - EG

Sitting with the Dying - EG

I walk in upon
a relay team of elderly siblings
proficient at sitting and loving.
So easily they leave behind their own tasks,
their sewing and the calls of their grown children,
to care.
I show them how to draw up the morphine
to the lullaby of the tv laugh track

I should draw up their patience.
Instead the bull of my own will
kicks and snorts -
wants to trample to dust this outdated cereal,
this stained white doughnut box holding up the trash can,
this bowl with its dusty chocolate,
a dozen bottles, each with an inch of perfume.

Oh, how I love to do something.

Sitting with the Dead - Margie S

Margie S. died today, called at 6:15 a.m.
Only 62, surrounded by no one.
A ward of the state since her son went to jail.
I read her prayers I don't believe
about a love I do believe.
And the staff,
about whom you would think the worst
if you saw them out on this street,
came to touch her and say good bye. 

Branding

Used to be what men did to animals.
What owners did to slaves.
Now embraced by the great society.
Our new ideal.
To be branded.

It Takes a Village

It takes a village to raise a child, I hear.  Apparently it takes a small industrial city to get me through 6 months of cancer treatment.  I am humbled and grateful for everything that so many have done for me this past year.  What follows is a list of the hall-of-famers.  If I’ve forgotten anyone, please forgive me.

And if any of you need anything or know of anyone else who needs anything - as long as I’m still on the planet I’m at your service. 

 THANK YOU TO:

Chris, who was there every step of the way and still slow dances with me in the kitchen.

Kathryn for her prayers and cozy chemo caps.

Tim O. for staying in touch and recommending movies, especially Kenny because it made me laugh out loud.

Linda S. for organizing the chemo-sitting crew that I didn’t think I needed.  And all the sitters.

Vicki S. for being the Czar of Communications for so many.

Maggie U. for being willing to stay in the hospital without being sick.

Chuck S. for shaving my head & Sue M., Linda S., & Roni B. for covering it back up.

Roni B., Peggy S., Linda S., Kathy F., Cathy B. & Kaya, Tim R., Marie (Miracle of the Squashes) P., Tina S., Rae and the water aerobics crew, Faith W., Ann M. and for more I’m sure I’ve forgotten, for feeding me so lovingly & well.

Katie McG., Denise F., & Linda S. for the clean house.

Jamie B. for the karmic red meat swap.

Tim R. for the sympathy shave.

Kathy F. & Maggie U. for trying to make me look more presentable – it IS a nice wig!

Kassi O., Linsey S., Mandy, Linda S., Stacee & Amirra D., Jamie B., Carl B., Andrew F., and Tim V. for the drive-by rakings.

Tina A., Becky D. & Chris M. for the shots

Roni B. & Tim R. for the pet sitting.

Chris T. for her experience, strength, hope, cards, gifts, nagging & constant presence.

Linda S. for the shopping expeditions and Michelle C. for making them a spiritual experience.

Sarah S. for all the crystals and prayers.

Rabbi Jim for the healing ceremony.

Christy N. and the whole “time off” crew.

Ann & Gary for the peace of their land and beasties.

Neal R. for the journal to try to keep track of it all in.

Denise F., Rachel B., Gretchen D., Maggie U., and Cynthia B. for being my go-to medical team.

Elizabeth H. for the intelligence and competence that kept me from worrying about work.

Dr. W. for not once making me feel guilty about taking care of myself.

Denise F. for the house call.

Rachel B. for opening her home and for being there every day.

Ginny M. for trying to keep me eating correctly.

Layla A. for supporting me without having met me.

Everyone who visited, sent me cards, flowers, prayers, wishes, and also for those who called with the blessing of their own issues and got me out of myself.

Roslyn B. for demonstrating the pure joy of being alive.  

With light and love,

Namaste

mao

Things I'll Miss When I Die #1

Chris.  Laughing at our shared language & jokes so old we only need one or two words to tell them anymore.

The joyous optimism of dogs.

Sitting on the back steps on the morning of a day that will be too hot but isn't yet and listening to the world waking up.

Green.

My sponsees calling with boy problems, parent problems, work problems, school problems and then finding their own brave and beautiful solutions.

Dancing in the kitchen in my underwear.

The feeling of wool moving through my hands and the clunk of the loom.