I joke that cancer, especially chemotherapy, was so bad I wrote poetry.
This poem is the forth of what ended up being a series of five.
This was written towards the end of chemotherapy.
How do you measure a life?
Do you count the years?
How could you count the tears?
Do you consider the lovers?
The homes, the countries, the jobs?
Do you assess by the progression
I am the oldest in my familial generational line
Do I use that as a gauge, or simply as a responsibility?
Do you count the heartbreaks, or the triumphs or both?
I currently count….
The number of medical appointments
The weeks since surgery,
The days since chemo,
The number of chemo sessions left,
The days until, in my mind, I am “post chemo”.
How do we then measure a life?
I am aware then the measurements will shift…
What time frame is considered remission,
How long until further surgeries…
We all carry calenders and count downs within us,
A myriad of almanacs,
Mystical ephemera, or practical ephemeris?
Peronal logs, journals, chronicles?
Our stories, or our years?
Do we measure our friends or our fears?
How do we measure our days –
By the breeze, by the bees,
By the sun, by the trees?
Once the countdown ends..
*written on the day of my final chemotherapy infusion: 21st October 2021
©️ Fabienne S. Morgana 2021