TREES of TROUBLE

Trees of Trouble
Tall trees of trouble, 
India ink
straws of breath,
my fading voice on paper.

Trouble?
Oh God, yes. 
I am trouble. 
Almost always.

And as side effects set in
I cannot set aside my fear.

My voice is fading. 
And my mind is racing. 
I have so much to do. 
So many things to finish up. 
Before I’m finished up.

My heart is pounding. 
The earth is not grounding. 
Anxiety grips every muscle in my abdomen 
as I lose my grip on my confidence. 

Trouble, oh yes
I fear I am in deep trouble. 

More than skin deep. 
This is lung deep. 
Sternum deep. 
Paratracheal lymph-node deep. 
3 arcs in 10 days. It is deep.

Radiation again. Okay. 
Let’s do this!! 
And then I find out 
they are bringing Covid patients 
in through the Cancer Center!

WHAT?! No! 
Yes ma’am. Don’t get me started. 
Don’t get YOU started—
YOU have ME started
And I’m LIVID and I can’t breathe. 
My two masks are clogged and I cannot breathe. 

Why would you bring Covid patients in through the Cancer Center? 
IN THRU MY CENTER? 

I am freaking out
and I want to get out, 
but instead I have Radiation Day Seven. 
I’ve got to get downstairs or I’ll miss my spot.
And then they will miss ALL my spots.

What elevator did they use? 
We don’t know ma’am. 
Would you like me to spray the elevator?
Yes, please-please, yes.
He sprays 3 squirts with a plastic spray bottle, 
when I was expecting ghost busters. 

And I am livid. Trying to live. And I can’t breathe. 
My double masks let no air through.
I plow forward 
Like a desperate Livid Idiot, 
with no choice but to head down to the “LL”

The True Beam radiation machine waiting to shine on me. 
But the hallways are crowded. 
Patients unmasked laying on gurneys;
Animals from Africa hanging on walls.

And me and my double mask
and my cute outfit
and my livid breathing. 

And my racing heart
and my prayers
and my endless swearing; 
Please please please 
don’t let me get Covid 
from this fucking asshole 
shit-hole mother-fucking
shit-fuck of a place.

Please God of Cancer & Covid 
do not let these idiot-brains give me Covid
I’ve spent the whole year trying to Survive Cancer 
and trying to Avoid Covid 
and here I am at their mercy, God 
and they are bringing Covid Patients 
in through the Cancer Center. 
Through my center. 
The center of me. 

Come on in Ms. Hendron 
they say as if everything was normal.
10 days of radiation, I don’t even know if it was enough. 
But I’ve had enough.

My skin is red and angry
My feelings are red and angry.
And my voice is fading. 
Am I fading?

Doctor, what is the worst possible thing 
that can be causing my voice to fade?
I’m in trouble, I tell her. 
Something’s wrong with my voice. 

She tries to reassure me. 
But she doesn’t know how important my Voice is. 
I count on it. 
Sometimes, so do others. 
Really, I just found it and now I have nearly lost it. 

So I get out my paints. 
I’m going to paint my words. 
Paint my voice. 

I use India ink. 
Permanent.
Fade proof. 
I wish I was fade proof. 

And I use a straw to blow streams 
and strands of ink around my paper. 
If this is to be my last breath, 
then here it is for you to see.

Tall trees of trouble, 
India ink, 
straws of breath, 
my fading voice on paper-
for you to see.

©Flori Hendron 2021