Topic: It Will Have To Wait - A poem

Forum: Who or What Inspires You? — Share your personal story, diagnosis, and treatment path, and stories of survival, hope, and success to encourage and inspire others!

Posted on: Aug 3, 2017 02:15PM

Posted on: Aug 3, 2017 02:15PM

Dani_fd wrote:

It Will Have To Wait

Finding the space between, calm state of mind, calm state of being,

In a place in the world that ferries out the bustle of minds,

Chatter, noise of organized chaos

Waiting for the final stop call, the end of the line,

Down and out the tunnel, where it leads.

It is not the end, nor is it the beginning,

It is not an escape.

Finding this place is not accidental.

It is a mental push between the walls, in the airspace,

It is neither here nor there.

It is a place to begin,

To start over,

To see and think about the life you had

To be able to see the new life you now have.

Its profound rebound effect of understanding has

Made an impact.

I sift through the wounds of the luggage

I now haul.

I found a staircase that led upwards.

From the blackness of the basement level,

The level where facilities keep the cold storage locker room.

The one that as a child, you wondered about,

Because of its dark mysteries,

Overheard by the silent child waiting in the wings

While the adults discussed a loved ones condition,

A death in the family, A new addition, a birth

Where the body goes after being removed from the bed,

The place that is whispered about in hospital waiting rooms.

I dared to push the button on the elevator.

It shows a letter on the button, B

Where did B go to? What was on the B level?

Elevator doors open as the compartment stops moving,

A single sounding note plays,

The sound echoes down the unlit corridor ,

The smell of sanitizing chemicals linger in the air,

You look around.

You look left and right, nothing but the flicker of dying florescent lights,

The buzz of the ballast trying to power the dying tubes.

On the opposite side of the hall in front of the elevator door,

The first room you see with no doors at all.

Only a flap of plastic that hovers above the polished linoleum floor

Like a child's cartoon vision of a sheeted ghost,

Swaying back and forth so slowly,

Recognized as a sort of welcoming, inviting you inside.

It is exciting, It is frightening.

Without taking a step from the safety of elevator,

You are just standing there.

Vulnerable to anything and everything.

You are alone.

You are not alone.

You are 8 years old.

You are straining your eyes to try to see behind the plastic curtain,

Trying to invoke x-ray vision with all your might,

Leaning forward a little bit further, and further,

Leaning as far as you could without ever taking a step.

Did you really see something standing in the room?

Was someone there?

Machinery, a table?

Your heart is pumping faster, your breath is quick,

You hold you breath so you can hear better,

Was there a noise?

The plaque on the wall carries it's title.

It isn't legible.

No matter how hard you squint.

A tube flickers nearby and reveals its true nature, its purpose.

This is the morgue.

You find yourself standing in a badly lit hallway,

On B level, just a few feet away from the cold storage room,

B level is where they shuttle the newly deceased to and from.

The brightest source of any light that you feel safe in, doors still open.

You take a step backwards, it is too overpowering.

You have that feeling that tickles the back of your neck,

Where your heart is beating so fast your t-shirt flutters,

Giving your fear away, the instinct of being frightened.

What lies in that room,

You no longer want to know, but you do.

You cannot unlearn the truth.

No one warned that the elevator was broken from time to time,

The doors close behind you.

You didn't get a chance to evade the frozen beds of the dead.

You don't panic, You don't move.

You are frozen, only temporarily, a gift.

You have finally seen the mystery of B level,

A place that leads to the last room you will ever be in,

A freezing cold metal bed on casters that are pulled out

Or pushed back in, with doors that hide their contents.

The ice cupboards hide an infinite vast array of secrets,

The long awaited painful death after years of fighting disease,

A heart that just could no longer pump

A child that was only a visitor on earth before departing back to his heavenly father.

The angel that could not stay,

A victim,

A soldier

A criminal

A mother, father, sister, or brother

Each that lived a life of what we cannot fathom how many possibilities and outcomes.

B level stays in the back of your mind for years to come.

As you grew, you remembered it from time to time,

A little less each passing year.

You get a shock to the system,

Learning that your time was coming sooner than you thought,

To become a tenant on the B level.

You could lie down and cry,

Put yourself in the bed that the organizers have so conveniently put a name tag on

In advance, they know you're coming.

But I fooled them.

They don't know I have the winning lottery ticket

In my back pocket.

I found the space between living and dying, cancer and life.

I found a calm state of mind, calm state of being,

I found the place in the world that ferries out the bustle of minds, chatter,

Noise of organized chaos.

I tuned out when the bell rang that told me this was the end of the line,

And I missed my stop because of it.

B level will have to wait, it isn't my time.

The doctors upstairs have studied medicine for years,

Their studies and their science dictates that they can estimate

When you will be taking up residence in the cold storage apartments,

But that doesn't make it set in stone,

That doesn't write your epitaph.

It doesn't write your eulogy of the words so often spoken,

"Long hard battle".

You reject their estimates, their time-lines, their calendar

The "save the date".

That time is not now.

My travel bag is full of time I get to spend,

Full of hope, and love.

Even if I am wrong I am right.

A gift from God or medicine or both.

I won the lottery and I have wealth to share,

Beyond the machines, the sanitized beds,

The plastic seats all in rows.

I win today.

I will win again tomorrow.

I get to live.

I get to love.

B level will have to wait, it isn't my time,

I will rejoice in that.

It will wait and I will let it be that childhood

Mystery once again and release its' gripping fear

It had on me so many years ago.

-Danaë Françoise D.

This poem contains a true childhood experience from my time spent with my mother and father as they worked on a film from the 80's. It took place in an old hospital that was no longer being used and set for demolition. While filming, I left the set and wandered around exploring. I found the broken elevator and I did find the morgue. It was terrifying to me as a child!

Thank you for reading, I hope this is where this belongs, I wrote this 2 nights ago and it just felt right.

Dx 6/20/2017, ILC, Left, 5cm, Stage IV, metastasized to bone/other, Grade 3, ER+/PR+, HER2+, Radiation Therapy 6/20/2017 External: Lymph nodes, Bone Targeted Therapy 8/4/2017 Herceptin (trastuzumab) Chemotherapy 8/4/2017 AC + T (Taxotere) Targeted Therapy 8/4/2017 Perjeta (pertuzumab) Targeted Therapy 1/19/2018 Herceptin (trastuzumab) Targeted Therapy 1/19/2018 Perjeta (pertuzumab)
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Aug 3, 2017 10:13PM Icietla wrote:

Thank you for sharing your fine poetry here.

My latest (Stage IVB) diagnosis is almost certainly of another distant primary type. To the best of my information and belief, I am still apparently what we call NED as to breast cancer, doubtless thanks to Letrozole. Dx 2/12/2016, ILC, Right, Stage IIA, Grade 1, 0/13 nodes, ER+/PR+, HER2- Surgery 2/19/2016 Lymph node removal: Right, Sentinel, Underarm/Axillary; Mastectomy: Right; Prophylactic mastectomy: Left Hormonal Therapy 4/1/2016 Femara (letrozole) Surgery 4/25/2016 Prophylactic ovary removal Dx 8/2018, Stage IV

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