The day after

Yesterday morning
They took a part of me
Put it in a vial
And sent it to the lab

While I lay watching
They gathered up the tubes
Cleaned the knives and needles
And threw my gown away

The efficiency
Much appreciated
At a.m. breakfast
Is horrifying now

Slowly I sat up
Gathering wits and thoughts
Donning clothes and masks
Of strength.  Of calm.  Of power.

Preparing again
To face the world outside
With my head held high
But part of me missing

The cancer surgeon took a skin biopsy and seven (seven!) core biopsies from my right breast yesterday morning.  I came home and rested, read your messages of hope, and cuddled my children close.  As the pathologist cultures the cells and reads the results, I wait.  The words are not coming easily now, but they are coming.

When I was a child, I would put my feelings in verse.  Forgive me as I regress to the safety of that form.  Some days it’s the only way I can get the words on the page.