Last week my mother-in-law went in for a CAT scan to find out if months of chemotherapy and radiation did the trick.
I want to do this.
I don’t want to do this.
The parking lot is full—can we go home?
The waiting room is full—perhaps they won’t have time for me today.
Maybe the machine will break…maybe the lab tech will get violently ill from eating bad sushi and they’ll have to reschedule.
I want to know.
I don’t want to know.
I need to know.
When will I know?
I sort through magazines, looking for something
to divert
to distract
to entertain
as if anything could possibly hold my attention
except…it.
I’m surrounded by people.
I’m all alone.
Other people
not people
other patients
each wrapped in a cocoon
of symptoms
of sickness
of hope
of fear
What will they find with their
looking
and scanning
and probing?
If it’s gone, do I get my life back?
If it’s not, do I have the strength
to fight
again?
Everyone sympathizes.
No one understands.
and I am so cold
God, you have never seemed so close.
Or so far away.