my grandma died before I was born from breast cancer, and left behind a diary chock full of detailed descriptions of her journey. i got to know her through that diary, i know her because of that diary. in it, she described what going through chemo would have done to her, and ultimately her decision to bypass invasive treatment and go whenever the time came for her to. she inspired the following poem, because i want all my readers to remember that your loved ones get to decide how they fight their battles – and one way of fighting is never more “noble” than another. the choice is always in their hands.
i’m not losing my hair for this.
i’m not starting a gofundme for this.
i’m not dying for this either;
i’m living for it. fighting with it.
so that when I lose,
because I will lose…
you all can light candles & let sky lanterns
fly
saying I was a warrior
and making yourselves feel better
for what was my struggle
and my reality.
you want me to lose my hair & die
a heaped pile of chalky bones,
flaky skin,
“get treatment”
“fight it”
no.
I want to fight it looking like myself.
feeling like myself.
I want to fight it in my essence of the word:
and that is to live with it,
as if it is only
an annoying tenant in
the apartment that I am landlady for.
and not some life altering,
hospital bed-filling,
bouquet-buying,
balloon-blowing,
go-to-Costco-to-buy-cases-of-food-drinks-ing,
important,
thing.
let me fight it the way I want;
like with warm coffee in my hands,
on a balcony,
overlooking a park,
where kids get to squeal and play.
you get up, get out…
and let me fight this the way
I want.
and don’t you dare have a problem with it.
because I’ve lived, & this is living
to me.
the coffee in my hands might still be warm when the fight ends,
but all is well, I am well.
empress. french press. success. 