Writing: The treatment
It’s 6:00am in the morning and it is already daylight.
I arrive on the second floor and walk
to the door marked with big red
letters you can’t miss, 'chemotherapy’.
My hand tentatively grabs
the handle and I hesitate before entering.
Black leather recliners border the room
and the nurse beckons me to the third
chair on the left. I walk past her
in her strange attire and she nods
without a smile.
A fellow chemo patient sits quietly running her fingers
on her teeth and pulling the last strings of nails she has left.
And I’m always amazed to see
the other patient Mara, (although why everyone
calls her that I don’t know if it is her real name). She is
perfectly made up: lips lined and glossed
in a deep red, cheeks deeply blushed,
eyes covered with blue shadow, heavily
lined in black, and lashes coated
thick with mascara. Gold earrings
dangle beneath the silk
scarf tied stylishly around her head.
She brings glamor into our cancer room.
I am the new guy though;
unsure, frightened, and welcomed
by friends I’ve only known for a week.
I take my chair and a nurse swabs
my arm with alcohol.
Mara looks on as the IV
needle goes into my arm. She is horrified
but smiles for my benefit. A remarkable
person. Fluid pushes through the tubes
into my veins as I recline and open a
magazine. I am far from alone with these unknown people
in the room and the strength of my hand bare but I know you are with
me even if you are not here.
For a moment I close my eyes and feel
the tugging of a woman’s fingers at my hand.
I open my eyes and there is no one. It was
Only my imagination of her.
I close my eyes and I let my head fall back
To rest and think that this is just another day of two more
To come.
(2015)
