A Tetrad: To Celebrate the End of My Treatments for Breast Cancer

The following series of poems represents months of work through the most difficult time of my life as of yet. I wish to dedicate these poems to all the wonderful people involved in my care: the surgeons, medical oncologists, radiation oncologists, physician assistants, radiation therapists, nurses, and anyone else who has touched my world these last few months, both in private practice and at Roswell Park Memorial Institute. And to all of the cancer patients, both whom I have met personally and on the online support groups. Your strength never ceases to amaze me. Thank you to all. I couldn't begin to fully express my gratitude.

A TETRAD

It's Not Up to Him

Tell me that I can stay,
A little longer.
A life formed out of bits of thread and spilled blood
Is just a moment, a flash.
My creative clutter the only proof that I breathe.

Flesh plundered, compromised, sight unseen,
By one bad seed waiting,
For that slim circumstance
To strike and grow in a moment,
Interrupting a long-awaited dream.
We never know until we know,
We are not a given, even if we are forgiven.

I’d love to speak to that cell,
Lone invader of my own universe,
Travel the rivers and canyons of this divide,
Confront him and my swept-up fear.
To understand what he’s after,
Stealing my breath in order to live,
And perish with me.

I'd love to debrief that cell,
Make him squirm,
Will he have one noble reason?
Will I even comprehend why,
He means to use my body as his own,
Home Sweet Home,
For a little while?

I’d love to speak to that cell,
To tell him that I will stay,
A little longer.

It’s not up to him.

....................................




Ode to Awareness

Does tomorrow melt in your mouth,
Not in your hands,
Like Desire pulling you along by a taut, silken harness,
Only to nestle and caress you within the jaws of the famished world?

Do you tell your Prince to wake you later,
As you languishly linger within the folds
Of a sleep, unblemished by potion?
But, sooner than later, you will need those eyes open wide,
That breath strong and able,
Expanding and contracting for life.

Do you gaze across an open, fertile landscape,
Only to while away in longing,
For that noble Youth,
When all bitter Beauty has is these petals in her void?
All the while, the leaves rustle amongst us, calling out for Winter,
Awaiting to hear his step on the porch boards.

Do your dreams recall a listless longing,
Lying limp and open on the forest floor,
White flood rising from your cool gown,
A sad stream echoing your delirious sleep?
A cold wind blows, suddenly,
harsh and heavy upon your parched skin.

Shivering with eyes aflutter,
You think,
Perhaps, there is another way,
To conceive of this future,
Without falling through the cracks and chasms,
Of a life lived by another.

As you grasp the reins,
You navigate your way,
Slowly, ever so slowly,
Forward.

........................................


One Good Rain

All we need is one good rain
To wash these sins away.
Too bad it’s not so easy
To become clean again.

In the beginning,
There was sword and shield,
To keep us fully clothed.
Then we had witness protection,
To keep away all our foes.

Now it’s just a crapshoot,
We have nowhere to hide.
For me it’s just a walk on the beach,
But I am not too sure of the tide.

There really is no use,
I can duck in every doorjamb,
But I will always be looking backward,
A weapon filling each hand.

Protect both the chest and head
With armor reinforced.
Not once, but twice,
To withstand the force
An army of 100 men.
The battle cry sounds with a rush,
Of arrows emerging swiftly,
Over the cries of lonely voices
A raging fireball arcs,
And turns this armor to ashen dust,
This hope to smoke.

The fallen counted as we pass
Through these years
To days, not less dangerous.
It is not within the integrity of the body,
But in its own stealthiness.
We can disappear into thin air,
But still find invasion from within.
Crossing the crime of the organized
Will only leave you
With a neck forever cricked
a gaze directed behind those eyes,
A throat not quite nicked.

Night falls over the bustling bar,
A glow arises from the corner.
An enticing circle of fire emerges,
From the dimness
Beyond, the face slowly becoming visible
In the darkness.
A world alive at dusk,
A youth riveting and vibrant,
Confident in her ignorance.

A tinkle of ice as the whiskey
Flows, the smell wafts over me,
Like a banana freshly peeled,
It passes my lips like a fantasy.
That numb little confidence I love
Has entered my skin.
I coast down its river through days
And months
And eventually years
To where I am right now.

Here in this room
Whiskey long forgotten
Yet still a part of me.
Is it really
A mere cellular memory?

That’s it.
The deed is done.
I’ve unsheathed the sword,
Released my own ball of fire,
Submitted my body to flame and forge.
I’ve opened the gate to chaos,
I’ve started this holey war.
I’ve crossed the mafia cell at its own game,
And I will always be looking back.
With a crick in my neck,
A dislocated shoulder,
Waiting for that next attack.

And I owe it all to those whiskey years,
And that marvelous carelessness.
In my innocence of youth,
I had grasped a light,
That has lingered ever since.
And it’s true.
It is still near,
Burning strong and very much
Alive.

..........................................


A Perfect 84

42 years of a life,
Lived well and full,
Is not enough to wrap,
My weary arms around the world.

42 more would do,
Let’s make it symmetrical.
42 more would do very well.
My social calendar,
Is much too full.

84 years you say?
You’d be lucky.
I know.
But, 84 years in the scope of things,
Is just a drop on the great agar plate
Of the world.

84 years is all I ask,
A perfect number seemingly.
Keats got only 25,
And I’m no Keats,
That’s what I see.

We’ll call him Gabe,
My angel
Alarmed me of what’s to come.
He tapped me on the shoulder ,
Changed my curfew to some,
Night I never dreamed of,
Then changed it once again so I’d learn.

Then I knew,
That I was strong enough.
I knew when I saw you in my room,
That night, of all nights,
Mr.Gabriel.
Thank you for coming so soon.

I only wish,
That you were less frightening,
With your perfectly trimmed beard.
And eyes of clay and sinfulness,
Here on hallowed ground, so rare.

We are less earthy than you think,
Bring your white robes, I don’t care.
But I forgive you, Gabriel,
Your message was loud and clear:

These hands have more,
Comfort to give.
This left hand more to write.
This right hand more peace to share,
With those I encounter each night.

This hair much more,
Than vanity,
A frank expression of who I am.
This brain to compute and rationalize,
My relation to earth as it stands.

These eyes,
They are a window,
To a soul,
Not clean, but bright.
These bulky arms,
Which I lament,
Have held my child so tight.

These ears to listen caringly,
To those whom need me most.
This mouth with which to kiss goodnight,
All those whom are not lost.
These teeth to chew
The chocolate, most delicious and so fine.
This nose to smell the springtime air,
As it wispily leaves the vine.


This neck,
To accept,
Kisses and caresses,
All the same.
These shoulders
To shoulder the gardening,
Creating life along the way.

These breasts create a line,
From me to my
Beloved and his stare.
My waist encompassed by those arms
Who really, truly care.
My hips contain my power,
Of life and femininity.
Those thighs that I wish smaller,
Have gotten me from sea to sea.

These old calves are
Not so bad,
But shaving them gets routine.
My feet, oh my woeful feet,
You can kiss them,
But not this week.

My heart,
I save the best for last,
It holds so many dear.
Although I may not express myself,
Hear me loud and clear.

84 years,
Almost a century,
Of life to give and share,
This body with the great wide world,
I’ll do it, if you dare.

Knowing that I love you all,
Sleep silently,
Knowing that I care,
And never for a minute dream
Of when you will not be here.
Leave that worry all to me,
I’ve seen it all before.
To me it’s just a path I’m on,
And I’ve just opened the great big door.


This is my one wish for you,
Life can be so unfair.
For I have people looking out for me,
Some white dove--down here, up there.
Oh No! I’ve lost my shoes again,
Radiation is a bear.

I Keep Chipping Away

I've been working on a series of poems about breast cancer for months now. Writing, rewriting, and finding my muse in many places that I never even thought to look. This particular poem caused me many nights of lost sleep and moments of frustration, and the members of my writing group, who watched me as I brought a new version in each week, can attest to this. I was initially inspired by the Chronicles of Narnia exhibit at the Buffalo Museum of Science. I began reflecting on this idea of children at war and how perhaps we have some kind of innate strength that is present, even since birth. I used the idea of light as a symbol of my own strength, from which I was able to tap into many times over the last 6 months. This poem lay in its beginning stages for at least a couple months until one night, inspiration came to me. The title came to me in a half asleep-half awake state, after throwing off my blankets in the heat. I pictured a computer file labeled with the title One Good Rain, and I began to write and eventually finish this poem in this state of "in-between" consciousness. As I coast through my last few radiation treatments, I am very happy to present to you my latest literary creation and to say that the series is,at long last, complete.

One Good Rain

All we need is one good rain
To wash these sins away.
Too bad it’s not so easy
To become clean again.

In the beginning,
There was sword and shield,
To keep us fully clothed.
Then we had witness protection,
To keep away all our foes.

Now it’s just a crapshoot,
We have nowhere to hide.
For me it’s just a walk on the beach,
But I am not too sure of the tide.

There really is no use,
I can duck in every doorjamb,
But I will always be looking backward,
A weapon filling each hand.

Protect both the chest and head
With armor reinforced.
Not once, but twice,
To withstand the force
An army of 100 men.
The battle cry sounds with a rush,
Of arrows emerging swiftly,
Over the cries of lonely voices
A raging fireball arcs,
And turns this armor to ashen dust,
This hope to smoke.

The fallen counted as we pass
Through these years
To days, not less dangerous.
It is not within the integrity of the body,
But in its own stealthiness.
We can disappear into thin air,
But still find invasion from within.
Crossing the crime of the organized
Will only leave you
With a neck forever cricked
a gaze directed behind those eyes,
A throat not quite nicked.

Night falls over the bustling bar,
A glow arises from the corner.
An enticing circle of fire emerges,
From the dimness
Beyond, the face slowly becoming visible
In the darkness.
A world alive at dusk,
A youth riveting and vibrant,
Confident in her ignorance.

A tinkle of ice as the whiskey
Flows, the smell wafts over me,
Like a banana freshly peeled,
It passes my lips like a fantasy.
That numb little confidence I love
Has entered my skin.
I coast down its river through days
And months
And eventually years
To where I am right now.

Here in this room
Whiskey long forgotten
Yet still a part of me.
Is it really
A mere cellular memory?

That’s it.
The deed is done.
I’ve unsheathed the sword,
Released my own ball of fire,
Submitted my body to flame and forge.
I’ve opened the gate to chaos,
I’ve started this holey war.
I’ve crossed the mafia cell at its own game,
And I will always be looking back.
With a crick in my neck,
A dislocated shoulder,
Waiting for that next attack.

And I owe it all to those whiskey years,
And that marvelous carelessness.
In my innocence of youth,
I had grasped a light,
That has lingered ever since.
And it’s true.
It is still near,
Burning strong and very much
Alive.

A Mother's Day Wish: A Poem by Me

"Poetry is a record of the life around us and in us, and you'll get a better idea from poetry what it was like to be alive in 2011 than you will from the New York Times." ~Garrison Keillor

If this is so, I only hope my own poetry can live up to the task.  This poem was written this week, May 2011:

 

 A Perfect 84

42 years of a life,

Lived well and full,

Is not enough to wrap,

My weary arms around the world.

42 more would do,

Let’s make it symmetrical.

42 more would do very well.

My social calendar,

Is much too full.

84 years you say?

You’d be lucky.

I know.

But, 84 years in the scope of things,

Is just a drop on the great agar plate

Of the world.

84 years is all I ask,

A perfect number seemingly.

Keats got only 25,

And I’m no Keats,

That’s what I see.

We’ll call him Gabe,

My angel

Alarmed me of what’s to come.

He tapped me on the shoulder ,

Changed my curfew to some,

Night I never dreamed of,

Then changed it once again so I’d learn.

Then I knew,

That I was strong enough.

I knew when I saw you in my room,

That night, of all nights,

Mr.Gabriel.

Thank you for coming so soon.

I only wish,

That you were less frightening,

With your perfectly trimmed beard.

And eyes of clay and sinfulness,

Here on hallowed ground, so rare.

We are less earthy than you think,

Bring your white robes, I don’t care.

But I forgive you, Gabriel,

Your message was loud and clear:

These hands have more,

Comfort to give.

This left hand more to write.

This right hand more peace to share,

With those I encounter each night.

This hair much more,

Than vanity,

A frank expression of who I am.

This brain to compute and rationalize,

My relation to earth as it stands.

These eyes,

They are a window,

To a soul,

Not clean, but bright.

These bulky arms,

Which I lament,

Have held my child so tight.

These ears to listen caringly,

To those whom need me most.

This mouth with which to kiss goodnight,

All those whom are not lost.

These teeth to chew

The chocolate, most delicious and so fine.

This nose to smell the springtime air,

As it wispily leaves the vine.

This neck,

To accept,

Kisses and caresses,

All the same.

These shoulders

To shoulder the gardening,

Creating life along the way.

These breasts create a line,

From me to my

Beloved and his stare.

My waist encompassed by those arms

Who really, truly care.

My hips contain my power,

Of life and femininity.

Those thighs that I wish smaller,

Have gotten me from sea to sea.

These old calves are

Not so bad,

But shaving them gets routine.

My feet, oh my woeful feet,

You can kiss them,

But not this week.

My heart,

I save the best for last,

It holds so many dear.

Although I may not express myself,

Hear me loud and clear.

84 years,

Almost a century,

Of life to give and share,

This body with the great wide world,

I’ll do it, if you dare.

Knowing that I love you all,

Sleep silently,

Knowing that I care,

And never for a minute dream

Of when you will not be here.

Leave that worry all to me,

I’ve seen it all before.

To me it’s just a path I’m on,

And I’ve just opened the great big door.

This is my one wish for you,

Life can be so unfair.

For I have people looking out for me,

Some white dove--down here, up there.

Oh No!  I’ve lost my shoes again,

Radiation is a bear.

Part 2: A Room with a View, The 1986 Merchant-Ivory Film

Lucy Honeychurch looking out over Florence from her "Room with a View"

Julian Sands as George Emerson

Yesterday's post talked about my revelation about how I came to my life at this point, all 42 long years of it.  Today, I want to continue the conversation by telling you a little about my all-time favorite film, A Room with a View.  This movie is about as true to the original novel as a two hour film can be.  The cast is amazing and most of them have had noteworthy careers up until this point, although they may appear very young to our eyes 15 years later.

Daniel day Lewis as Cecil Vyse

Daniel Day Lewis plays the character of Cecil Vyse, the passionless, reserved fiance of Lucy.  He reminds me of a cold impenetrable marble statue both in demeanor and personality.  Daniel Day Lewis is spectacular in this role.  Lucy Honeychurch is the main character whom the novel revolves around.  She is played by Helena Bonham-Carter, whom we have seen more recently as the young Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother in The King's Speech.  Lucy is as compassionate as Cecil is sneering, as soft as Cecil is hard.  She is an accomplished pianist who, before she undergoes her trans-formative period, puts all her passion into her music.  As Mr. Beebe, the clergyman in the church in Windy Corner (Lucy's home), states,  "If Miss Honeychurch ever takes to live as she plays-it will be very excited-both for us and for her."  With this statement, we are offered a glimpse of what is to come as the film progresses and unfolds. Lucy's music exposes the real Lucy, the genuine side of her just waiting to come out and be known.

Julian Sands plays the character of George Emerson, "silent George", a man ignorant of propriety but not of happiness, nor Fate itself.   Through clandestine meetings, Lucy and George begin to fall in love.  George recognizes this, but Lucy refuses to acknowledge the feelings she has for George.  George is both sultry and innocent at the same time.  He is bold and unafraid to show his passion and to believe in what he feels.

Maggie Smith plays the bumbling and incorrigibly exhausting Charlotte Bartlett, chaperon to Lucy in their journey to Italy.  The novel seems to pivot around Charlotte.  She is at times antagonistic to the novel's ability to resolve itself, and at others, she gives the novel its momentum to come to a turning point.  Judy Dench plays a minor role as Eleanor Lavish, the feisty lady novelist.  We also see Rupert Graves as Freddy Honeychurch, Lucy's brother, and Simon Callow as Mr. Beebe.

The most important chapter of the novel is aptly named The Twelfth Chapter and this Merchant Ivory Production really does this chapter a good amount of justice.  I think Forster had highlighted this particular chapter because it exhibits exactly what Forster is attempting to achieve with this novel.  Freddy, and George meet here, along with Mr. Beebe, and all three decide to spend the afternoon at the "Sacred Lake", the village pond mostly secluded by all but those who happen to pass through the woods.  The three men become naked and almost immediately natural, without any sign of civilization and polite society to hold them back.  They throw their clothes around in play as to show that this is what they think of society and its trappings.  I might also add this scene contains a shocking amount of male frontal nudity, which really is all right by me.  There is too much female-centric nudity in film these days.  I wanted to pull a quote from the novel that really fits with this scene:

Lucy and Cecil at the Sacred Lake

"I believed in a return to Nature once.  But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her?  Today I believe that we must discover Nature.  After many conquests, we shall attain simplicity.  It is our heritage...In this-not in other things-we men are ahead.  We despise the body less than women do.  But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden." I must add here, though, that this quote does not appear in the movie.  In fact, much of Forster's language and idealism has been left out for what I would assume are time constraints.

Lucy and George in Florence

It is quite appropriate that Lucy and Cecil walk over to the Sacred Lake to escape from their engagement party. Cecil is a surreal, misplaced figure here-the marble statue placed inside the wilderness.  Cecil is ill at ease here amidst the natural world and when they kiss, it is awkward, humorous, and his glasses get in the way.  Pretty much a disaster!  Not a very natural kiss to say the least.  Not like the kiss that Lucy experienced with George in Florence. (It really doesn't get any better than that!)  Cecil is unable to enter nature with Lucy, so they cannot be comrades.  He won't allow for equality.  He sees her as something to possess, to be had for show, for her beautiful "playing" on the piano.  But, not for the passion of what she plays, for what it will tell others about his choice of a wife.

I love how James Ivory is able to exhibit this idea of nature and civilization clashing throughout this film.  We see Cecil in one scene smoking inside the house gazing at Lucy who is running back from tennis, all flushed with the fresh air, exercise, and passionate feelings toward George.  In another, Cecil is taking Lucy, her mother, and Charlotte for a walk past the Sacred Lake while the three men are playing naked.  Now this is a hysterical scene!  Cecil is not one of the "natural" men.  He is "one of the ladies" trying to defend them from the men, clearing a path in the brush so they do not have to directly walk past the lake.  In another scene, Cecil is annoyed by Freddy's humorous, very "middle class", singing at the piano, so is forced outside into the unknown natural world because he prefers this to being with the lower classes.

To conclude, I will leave you with another quote from the novel:

"Yes, we fight for more than Love or Pleasure, there is Truth.  Truth counts, Truth does count."

The 1986 film version of A Room with a View is available for immediate viewing on Netflix.  I hope you will consider my recommendation and watch it for yourself.

This film gets a perfect 5 stars from me.

How Did I Get Here?

Life isn't about perfection, and I am telling you this from the position of a person going through treatments for breast cancer, so you have to believe I am sincere when I say this.  In fact, I myself prefer life messy.  It is not a sin to be human-to have, feelings, emotions, imperfections, humanity.  We all struggle to survive in our own way, with our own individuals ideas of what true happiness is.  We each run out of time, experience heartache, illness, and grief, feel distress, loneliness, and betrayal.  To be human is to a be a being with the need to love and be loved in all its inevitable pain and emotional upheaval.  But, we also need to be happy and without love, happiness is an impossibility.  As happiness comes out of love, so Beauty comes out of happiness.  Not just normal everyday beauty, but Beauty with an enormous capital "B".

The definition of "beauty" has been twisted over the years.  Beauty is not what you see on the cover of Glamour magazine, in the make-up aisle, in the look of the "celebrity of the day", or even in  the most beautiful woman/man in the world.  It may be within this person, but Beauty, true Beauty, is not superficial.  Beauty is something that you see within someone, through their actions, expressions, way of being.  Beauty can also be seen between people, whether they are lovers, family, friends, or even strangers meeting for the first time.  People who "fit" in some way.  Beauty is in Nature-within its power, its synergy.  Nature is true to itself and holds no airs or propriety.  Beauty can also be created in art of any form.  It just needs to be true and hold no pretense.  So, when something is true to itself or him/herself, then Beauty can be found here.  Perhaps it's true what Keats wrote in his poem "Ode on a Grecian Urn" from 1819:
        "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all
        Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

I believe when we deny happiness and refuse to follow our heart where it leads us, we commit a true sin against ourselves and against Beauty.  I have always felt this way, just not in a conscious way.  More like a little seed inside of me waiting for the chance to sprout.  In this, E. M. Forster was my water and sunshine.  He helped me to understand this ideal Beauty, leading me away from superficiality.  Somewhere around 1990, I happened to discover the 1986 film A Room with a View, completely by chance.  It was playing on the television when I was living with my parents.  My parents each had their own TV (actually they each had their own living room due to a general dislike of each other), but I do remember seeing this movie on my father's TV in my father's "room".  In my youth, my father, in his own way, tried to introduce me to great literature.  I remember him buying me a nice leather bound edition of Daphne du Maurier's Jamaica Inn and urging me to read it.  I don't think I ever got past the first couple chapters.  Actually, I probably should look up that book and read it with my more "adult" eyes and see what I think about it.  I did love Rebecca, her more well-known novel.  My father wasn't a huge reader of fiction, but he did have a library of books, more of a scientific bent to them though.  He had many books on science, nature, and history, typical of a high school science teacher.  I do think I remember seeing a little Dickens there, though.  My father was a very unique individual, kind of an aloof intellectual, but with a very mercurial streak and a very physical bent.  He loved sports and was always coaching one sport or another.  As I grow older, I realize more and more how like him I have become (minus the sports).  My temper does flair quite often, and I'm surrounded by the books that I love, just of a different sort.

From what I remember of high school, a public high school I might add, was that books and literature were things to be got through and completed, kind of like a chore.  Hopefully, this has changed in public school today, but somehow I sense that it has not.  So, my appreciation didn't blossom for a while.  I was a true late bloomer in life.  My happening on this film at the age of 22 was pure serendipity for me.  It was one of the defining moments of my life.  "A Room with a View" puts into both words and images my own thoughts and philosophical beliefs that I had held close all along.  The film also gave me an appreciation for art, both good and bad, and art's power.  It allowed my mind to open and expand, to include those people beyond my own scope and very limited society.

I ended up taking my first university level English course in the Fall of 1994.  I had graduated in 1991 with a Bachelors degree in Clinical Laboratory Science and was working in a lab at the time, but knew that this was not my future as it was intended.  My father had hoped that I would attend medical school, but unfortunately, my strengths did not lie in science and math.  My grades were not med school worthy (a B average) and my emotional makeup was not condusive to getting up close and personal with the human body.  In fact, the whole idea of having to take gross anatomy scared me away from most of the health fields available to the coursework I had already taken.  I ended up in the laboratory when everything else had been ruled out.  A great way to start a life.

I enrolled in a course called The Romantic Movement offered by the English department at the University of Buffalo.  And I won't lie to you, it was tough.  I read the poems of Keats, Wordsworth, Shelley, and Coleridge with relish and to the best of my ability at the time, but could not write a proper English paper no matter how hard I tried.  It would take years for me to try to do this, but I did and can and now find that I am actually really good at it.  Who would have thought?  As I am sitting down finalizing my coursework for the Fall to finally, at long last, complete my Masters degree in English, I realized something of profound importance.  E. M. Forster opened the doors to a world I had never known existed.  Those few moments in my four-decade-long life, watching cable on my father's massive medieval-style console TV, sitting on the burnt orange wall-to-wall carpet,  were the beginnings of the biggest turning point of my life.

And I have Mr. Forster and his contribution to the great tradition of literature to thank for it.

Stay tuned tomorrow for more on the film A Room with a View, directed by James Ivory in 1986.