Something told me to post this poem today, another extraordinary one spent loving my NYC life…
I came to break up with my doctor, two years to the day since we met. My friends got houses, married, pregnant. I got cancer. Kicking its ass took nine months from my life. And convinced me to live it. Surgeons scooped lymph nodes like seeds from under my arm, taking my cancer away. I show the doctor the swollen hand souvenir they left behind. She suggests physical therapy, says, “Sometimes these signs shake us up, remind us to keep dreams alive.” I announce I’m moving to New York, to ride passion, write real and banter with beautiful boys. To bask in bustle, soar in stale subway air and evolve ever more. To find. The life. I want. I say I’m going in May, spring forward, hope not to fall back. She hands me a new oncologist’s name. “See him in six months,” she says, “Make sure you see him in six months.” Flat fingers circle my breasts, one slightly smaller than the other now. I breathe shallow, insides screaming “no lumps, no lumps, don’t find any fucking lumps.” She doesn’t. And I get dressed, one more hurdle cleared for take-off. I hug the doctor and wonder what it’ll be like to not know her. The doctor tells me to send a post-card then heads away. I call after her. “You want me to use your real name or an alias in my book?” Dr. Ellis turns, grins again, and says, “Oh, use my real name.”
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