Writer, researcher, music lover, cancer survivor with CMMRD ("double" Lynch syndrome)
I just found two poems I wrote, two and a half years apart, about two different people, and they fit together perfectly, and have almost the same title with only one word different. How very odd. It’s like one poem answers another; one person answers a call that they didn’t hear at the time and that wasn’t intended for them, yet still they appeared.
Another dream is dressing,
preparing for her entrance.
I hope she is good. I have
not paid for a ticket but
I have rights. The curtain
twitches and the lights
dim. I hope the dream is
in her best dress. Something
gold and glittery, hip-hugging,
trailing down to the floor as
the dream sways like she is
about to walk onto the red
carpet. Maybe her hair will
be wavy and flowing, topped
with a tiara. Stilettos lifting
the dream a little, making her
walk taller and stand straighter,
proud and excited to perform.
Sitting in the front row of the
theatre by myself, I am underdressed
in my pyjamas, but I am an
eager audience – stripy blue
and white bottoms and even
though it’s February now, a long-
sleeved top with Rudolph’s
face on it and a gimmicky
pink ball for a nose, which
strangely sticks out not far
from where my stoma used
to be. I am comfortable yet
vulnerable. I urge the dream
not to read my thoughts, not
to think about the day just gone
or the day about to ascend. I ask
her to perform a work of fiction,
to sing a happy, upbeat song
I won’t want to wake up from.
I pray for a play that strays
from my normal viewing –
that strays from dead relatives,
from haunted houses, from
familiar fears, from realism. The
curtains open and I see the silhouette
of the dream walk to the microphone.
I clap, my hands hollow and echoing
in my private purgatory. The
spotlight shines on her, and she begins.
The other day I wrote a blog post about how I tend to think of
my body as something separate from myself, rather than part of me. I had a bit of an epiphany and now I think that the narrative I’ve been using to describe my body and my relationship with it has been harmful. You might want to read that before wading into this nonsense – it’s really a series of tweets, and it’s not very long. Basically, cancer has fucked me up in terms of how I think about myself and my body. I’m sure other illnesses can do the same, so if any of these even vaguely relates, keep reading.
I have written a guest blog post for Lucy Turns Pages! It’s all about how writing has helped with my mental health in relation to cancer survivorship. Please take a look and let me know if it strikes a chord! You can find it here: “Writing About Mental Health and Cancer Survivorship”.
Note to self: There is a difference between seeing a health problem as something external that is threatening your body, and seeing your body as itself as the problem. Your body is not a threat. The illness/problem is a threat. Your body is on your side.
Hospital appointment on Wednesday – first of three different ones but I’m still waiting for the others to come through. I’ve been feeling quite content and at peace today and yesterday, considering, but I’m feeling a tiny bit anxious this evening. Which is illogical, because nothing has changed between then and now. Goodness knows how I will feel when I wake up in the morning. Some days I wake up feeling worried and other days I wake up feeling chirpy, and there is no discernable reason for either. It’s a lottery. I’m held hostage by my feelings. I know the Buddhist answer is to watch them come and go without attachment. I guess I could try harder at that.
I’m excited to have three poems accepted for online zine In Between Hangovers. One is already up on the website, and two others are forthcoming! This poem, “Superheroes”, is one I wrote for another publication but it got rejected. I was going to put it on my website but decided that I really liked it and maybe someone else would like it enough to publish it, too. I’m glad I put it back out into the wild! Here it is – Superheroes at In Between Hangovers.
your body doesn’t care
that it’s nearly Christmas
your body doesn’t care
about your birthday
your body will betray you
without checking the calendar
don’t refer me to a surgeon,
refer me to a good friend.
give me a letter urging me
to go to the pub immediately.
don’t refer me to the hospital,
refer me to jack daniels.
after all, he is a specialist
in these things.
don’t refer me to a doctor
refer me to my boyfriend
send me home to do nothing
just refer me back to bed.
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