Cancer Meditations V

I find myself apologizing to my body for what I've put it through, then remembering we're on the same side of this war.

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Radiation sneaks up on you. It’s phantom sensations without warning, a delayed onset, a steady shift, and then a rapid descent.

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I’m covered in burns and lesions, they’re coming out of nowhere from a hidden sun. My skin remembers what my mind tries to forget.

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Life is the shock of a blue sky and flowers blooming after weeks of being inside.

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The doctor said that survivorship can be the real challenge. But right now, just surviving is more than enough.

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The irony of radiation: invisible light becoming the most visible force in my life.

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I’m caught in the crossfire of my healing. I want to cleanse the poison from my body, but for now, I still need it to save me.

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I look like an addict: bruised arms, collapsed veins. But I’m chasing survival, not escape.

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There’s blood where there shouldn’t be. Systems are breaking. My body is collateral damage.

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I used to measure days by what I accomplished. Now, I measure them by what I can withstand: the foods I can eat, the hours I can stay awake, the minutes I can go without feeling nauseous, and the steps I can take without fainting.

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Chemo brain fog isn't fog at all; it's quicksand. Thoughts sink and disappear mid-formation, leaving me grasping at ghosts.

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Radiation technicians tattooed my skin with tiny, permanent dots - invisible coordinates to a place I never intended to visit.

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In a wheelchair, the world is suddenly stratified. Everything is too high, conversations float above my head, a geography of inaccessibility I never noticed before.

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Privacy became a luxury when my body started to break down. My dignity now exists in narrower margins.

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I am nearing the end of this cycle, but healing is a long-tail, a marathon that follows the sprint of treatments.