Slow Poison 8/31/06

96 hour slow drip,
creeping into my vein.
up my arm,
dispersing into my body
Attacking any cells
slow-growing,
like cancer cells.
And incidentally mucus membranes
in my mouth, nose and elsewhere.
Collateral damage.

These effects not to occur for a week...
or so.
My biggest problem now,
in this hospital,
is boredom.

I unplug my pole,
drape the electrical cord over one of the hooks
And push it slowly through the halls.
Into the chapel to sit for awhile,
and listen to the gurgle of the fountain there,
soothing my mind into meditation.

Into a small courtyard,
a surprise place,
to warm my air-conditioned body.
in the warm, moist, late August,
Arkansas air.

Into the cafeteria to find some soup,
promised, but not delivered, for my dinner,
confronted by an angry cashier,
who insisted I pay.

Into Outpatient Oncology,
to visit with Amini, my angel nurse there,
and other patients,
in our chemo club,
there for their weekly dose of drugs.

I welcome Jacob and Emily,
who climb in my bed,
raise and lower the head,
then the foot,
change the TV channel,
push the call button by mistake,
and squirt each other with a hose,
left in the small courtyard.

Kim has delivered me here,
hauled in my stuff,
(clothes,
my own soft sheets,
a huge futon,
fearing the bed is too soft for me)
She brings me organic greens
and fresh fruit,
which I begin to crave.

Denise brings playing cards
to entertain me,
and roasted veggies,
and a muffin from Wild Oats,
which saves the next morning,
when they forget my breakfast.

Mark, a dark, handsome first year nursing student,
kindly pokes his head in every hour to see if I need anything.
He grew up in Beirut,
came here from Boston,
with an American wife.
He had the frightful pleasure
of making the first failed attempt
to stick my vein for my IV,
the first of many failed sticks to follow,
I reassure him that I am quite used to it

I wake, one day
with a swollen, painful arm
bloated with Taxol,
IV having misplaced during the night.

Good competent nurses
treat me kindly,
know I am Dr. Getzoff’s mama.
Many are known to me
from 30 some visits
to outpatient oncology
over the last year.

One more night of interrupted sleep,
blood taken at 3 am,
blood pressure at 6.
One more tray of
suspiciously fluffy eggs,
and odd smelling oatmeal.

One more morning wait for my doc,
his drawling humor,
and great ties.
And then the slow poison
will be pulled from my arm,
the beeping pole quieted.

And I will be discharged,
fetched by Kim,
hugged soundly, and put in the car.

I go home
to look at the lake,
float on my back,
and wait
for the poison to kick in.