Cathy Coley

Untangle

a morning glory vine wrapped around a sunflower stem with one pink bloom

a morning glory vine wrapped around a sunflower stem, with one pink bloom

Untangle

Andrew built a wooden frame for privacy.

I planted morning glory seeds and sunflower seeds

to fill the space between us and neighbors.

It’s past Midsomer. The sunflowers stand happy sentinels,

as delicate vines begin to wind and climb to strangle them, unaware.

I spent a good part of the morning unwinding the precious threads

from the sunflower stalks they chose

to entangle around instead of the posts of the frame.

I wound the long vines around the wood frame.

The morning glories are lovely and few,

and too delicate for human touch

as they furl in their open selves toward noon.

It’s too hot in the midday humid sun

for me to try to untangle, and I have so much more

Useful things to do.

The precious vines I unwind have me

metaphoring to my cancer,

and how the surgeon, oncologist, pathologist

are trying to untangle

any remaining invisible cells

from my lymph nodes.

The two that held cancer

beyond the hard tumor in my breast,

my surgeon calls sentinel nodes,

gatekeepers.

My eldest son laughs

and compares the nodes

to a videogame sacrifice.

The gatekeepers are sacrificed

so the rest of the troops

can prepare for a defensive attack.

I'm trying to untangle all the medical

and financial information in a system

that commodifies my life as a sacrifice,

if we can’t pay

for the surgeries to cut the tumor and nodes out;

for the chemotherapy to air raid bomb

any infiltrating cancer cells out;

for the radiation after chemo,

just in case they find a single holdout in a hidden bunker

after all that residual damage is done.

I try to untangle how my daughters’

education won’t be sacrificed during this pandemic.

She can’t attend school or ride a bus,

a sacrificial lamb to a slaughter.

Since the governor can’t decide yet,

I decided for my child, for myself,

and family health.

Options are available beyond a classroom

full of covid and a myriad other disease vectors.

I untangled the pandemic from my cancer,

and the chemotherapy

that will wipe out my immune system,

like America bombs the Middle East.

The same philosophy behind both:

If we wipe it all out, maybe we’ll

get the bad guys: ISIS, cancer.

But how do I untangle the idea of destroying

what is supposed to protect me

on the off-chance a few cancer cells

may still float around in

undetermined corners of my body?

But morning glories aren’t cancer.

And sunflowers aren’t protecting us

from anymore than maybe a curious glance

or a stray hello.

The delicate lacy vines are precious

and carry beauty that changes

with the sun to protect itself

as it clings on for dear life.

I protect them both, with care,

the bowing strong, tall sunflowers,

and their delicate and dangerous

neighbor morning glories.

First draft 7/14/20

updated: 3 months ago

Off-Roading, From the Ground

a setting of rose quartz and ceramic bird with a hadndmade wire and rose quartz tree in center

friendship is loveship

Since May’s post, I was biopsied, lumpectomied, had clear margins widened (a second, lesser surgery on Baby Cthulhu Boob) all in the span of 6 weeks. There’s a lot more to this story, quite a rollercoaster. First it was determined I would probably only need spot radiation, but we are now headed toward chemo once the incision heals.

I’m blessed (I don’t use that word frequently or lightly) to have good friends from many quarters seeing me through in big and small ways. The pic included shows a gift from one. I’ve had more, and loads of good thoughts, etc.

Kid managed to finish out the school year at home, digitally, and will go to 7th grade. I’m waiting on a district decision, but she will be home for next year even if school is physically opened. Between the Pandemic and Chemo, I can’t have her in the germ fray.

Writing is more like big thoughts I’m catching sometimes in small ways. Kinda poems, kinda journal, kinda nothing. A lot of feelings I’m not ready to expose to light. I skipped June here, but June rode over me repeatedly with big off-roading tires. I hope yours was better, and your loved ones are still here. Throw a little love into the world while you’re out there, in whatever capacity.

Love and Namasté,

Cath

updated: 3 months ago