Cold mornings open
on iron ground.
Thin, dry grass,
sparse as hair on an old man's head,
clings in bitter struggle.
Refrozen, rancid winter kills
laid bare to punctures and flaying scavengers.
Stand here a little while longer,
if only to hear the wind
bitch and moan.
Rot below my ribcage
seeps down into bilge limbs.
Laid out in a white room,
needles and bags filled with fairy dust
heal me with extra crazy juice.
Needle-nailed and pierced today,
in three days I rise,
moon faced, buffalo backed, fissure fingered,
spitting copper breath, while flab-lidded eyes
horrify and heal the sinners and innocents alike.
Hear them bitch and moan.
This poem is as tastefully rude as I can make it, without spilling over and burning you with bitterness. My kidneys and my immune system don't get along.
I started a new treatment plan today. It includes intravenous infusions of very powerful drugs (Methylprednisolone and Cyclophosphamide) with side effects that range from uncomfortable to bizarre to frightening. The last stanza of the poem includes a pretty accurate description of what I'm going to look like before summer comes.
I've been through this briar patch before. After a similar treatment, I was in remission for about 10 years. I was younger and in much better general health, but the treatment put a terrible strain on my family. Now I'm older and have hypertension and type 2 diabetes to complicate matters. If I'm not careful, this could kill me.
For most of my life I've struggled with controlling my temper. I'm looking ahead to six months of not recognizing myself in the mirror and some mild but disconcerting hallucinations. I'm afraid of how this is going to affect my job & my marriage. The treatment offers, at best, a 50/50 chance of success.
I feel like I'm sewn into a rotting gorilla hide and the only way out is to chew. I'm not throwing a pity-party for myself. I just want to get past this with some shreds of dignity and an intact marriage. Writing is a reality anchor and piss-poetry is the chain that runs to me. My struggle as a fully human poet is to express my anger without giving in to rage-rehearsals.
Methylprednisolone is a steroid. In addition to the physical side effects, it plays tricks on your mind. The last time I was on a steroid, I had mood swings and mild hallucinations. Unlike full-blown mental illness, my inner voice was loud and clear, assuring me that what I was seeing and feeling was not real and could quickly snap me back into reality. These episodes were triggered by darkness and fatigue. They were brief but nonetheless disconcerting.
Back then, I couldn't write. Even when I was in remission, my poem bottle had a cork in it. After my brother and my parents died, my grief popped the cork. I could write. Now I'm curious. Will the steroid plug my poem bottle? Will it overflow, will it explode into shards?
Thanks for sticking around to read this. If you want to jump the tip jar, stomp it like a grape.