Believe in Tagging Out Cancer
Did my chemo regimentation yesterday, Hooked up through a port. Catch-and-release program. The only barbed hook are the side effects–er, effects, nothing side about anything that hits you in the face. But I sit down and take the punch. I believe they’re more concerned about how this new round of chemo is going to hit me. Right now, I still feel okay with a touch of dizziness (But that’s how I went throughout myt twenties–with blueballs.) The docs asre concerned about my white blood cell count and talking about nausea, and I suspect they know more about how this chemo is really going to affect me, but don’t want to alarm me, because everyone has a different reaction. All I can do–well, a sports analogy. A runner is coming down the baseline and you’re the fielder waiting for the throw. You know the guy wants to take you out on the play, but you have top hold your ground and not back down to catch the ball that will tag him out. So He comes chemo being thrown to me, and cancer rapaciously running down the line to take me out, and even catching the ball is going to result in a head-on. And what will happen.
So, myabe I can scare it. Cancer is anticipating that I will have fear. So I dig in, ready and hungry for the collision where I can hurt it with a vicious tag. And I stare it down, dig my spikes deeper to destroy it with my taunt powers of revenge. Thinking, you put me here again, and I’m not letting you pat me. Look at how I’m standing. I’m no0t backing down, I’m digging in, leaning, and holding my glove out to take the chemo side effects and drill them down in the piut of your dark and ever hunger stomach of nothingness. I’m snarling and swearing at it and laughing.
I believe, believe, and cling. I believe, believeand believe, I can make this play. I believe, I believe.
You will never digest me, for I will eat you alive–slowly.
And this I BELIEVE!