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.