Moment of Madness

The season is here again, in which I begged the patient counselor to let me return.
This year, like last year, I am gripped by great, great grief--
Thinking how time, once a good giver, has become for me a terrible thief.
Time also has become, for me, a murderer.
The holiday season, decorated and ringing,
To me still beautiful: yet so sadly it reminds me I can no longer hear my mother singing.
It reminds me of my younger brother, Joe; how he and I bonded, with brothers' secrets.
Now he has fallen into the greatest secret of all, and he cannot share it.
We cannot share anything anymore.
The holiday season reminds me my mother and my brother are gone--
Taken by time, and killed.  Beyond my reach of touch and speech.
Last year, I begged my patient counselor
To let me return to my cancer-victims support group.
You see, I had sometimes arrived to the meetings late. 
I was thirty minutes late for my last meeting. 
I wouldn't have shown up that day, if I had known
That my being late that day would be the last straw to her. 
I didn't know my being late would weigh so heavily on my fate.
Unable to be on time that day, I just wouldn't have shown.
Or if she had told me how she was adding up my late times,
And holding them against me,
I would have simply not shown up on that day,
Or any other day that I could not avoid being late.
If she had ever warned me: "Michael, if you show up to a support meeting late again,
Then you will be banned.  Do you understand?"--
I would have understood.  And I would then have never arrived late again.
And then, I would never have had a moment of madness.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I had a moment of near madness last year.
No mother, no brother, to celebrate the holidays with--
Never again could I even call them on the phone.
I felt so terribly bereft of family, so terribly alone.
I yearned painfully to be back to the caring comfort I once had with my support group.
To hold hands with them again, in that wonderful circle of love.
I told the patient counselor of my grief and my need for support;
I asked her to let me return.
I promised her I would not arrive late.  Never, never again, would I arrive late.
I told her that if she had anything else she held against me, that I had yet to learn,
She could make a list of anything she wanted me to do, or not to do,
And I would faithfully follow.
If she had allowed me to return, then never another meeting would I have missed.
I would not have been and felt banned.  Never, never again would I have arrived late--
Nor would I have done anything at all, 
That she could take for cause to bring so much extra pain upon my bitter fate.
I could have had the support I needed,
And that little hour of happiness and sharing and caring.
But the patient counselor would not relent.
She had said that I was banned, and banned was what she meant.
So I had, last year, a near moment of madness.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Banned, she had said; and banned is what she meant.
No compassion for my motherless tears,
No compassion for me, for my brotherless loneliness,
As I faced my cut-short painful future, and felt my fears.
No caring about me, as a suffering human being.
Suffering, then, from being and feeling banned, even more than from my cancer.
No love for me in the Cancer Center, when I spoke by phone with the director,
And asked for his help, promising him I would follow any and every rule.
I really thought he would help me.  I was a fool.
He wouldn't even meet with me personally;
He just told me she was the support-group facilitator;
And she could decide and do whatever she wanted.
It was all up to the patient counselor.
The echo of his cold words and hers, ripping through my heart,
For over a year have haunted.
My grief and fear last year were near the breaking point;
To continue to be denied the comfort and community for which my heart had cried,
Crushed me, and carried me close to the edge.
So I had, last year, a near moment of madness.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Really, almost no one cares about me here-- 
Almost no one in this Cancer Clinic cares about me.
They take care of me coldly, mechanically--
Like a dishwasher washing dishes: if one falls and breaks, the dishwasher doesn't care.
They do things to slow down the progress of my cancer, because that is their paying job.
They do it not for me, but for the pay.  If I drop away, they will get their payday anyway.
They don't like me, because I have asked questions, and expected a friendly answer.
They don't like being questioned; they don't like being even mildly criticized.
They want you to follow all their marching orders, and don't step out of line.
If you cry at all, they greet your tears with anger--
After all, look at the ones who are not crying!
You're just another cancer patient to them--
Viewed like another screaming soul by a Nazi guard--
They don't want to see you cry--dry it up--no drama--
They want you to stay quiet in the cattle car.
They and you know where it is carrying you, before your nightmare will be finally through.
And I will have to deal with them for the rest of my life; because my cancer is incurable.
It can only be slowed for a short and uncertain time; and then the dinner bell rings--
And Crab, with its jaws and claws, wlll have its final feast.
So I had, last year, a near moment of madness.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Last year, the Halloween jack-o'-lanterns grinned mockingly at me.
My brother and I really got into Halloween together.  But he was gone.
I knew my support group would have a special Halloween meeting.  But for me,
It was not to be.
Last year, every cut-out cardboard Thanksgiving turkey reminded me
My mother was gone.
Reminded me I had no family. 
But I could have had something like a family, with my support group. 
I knew that they would celebrate.
They would celebrate Thanksgiving in a special gathering:
But I was kept out, by remorseless decree.
Then came the Christmas season, with its light-blinking trees,
And lovely green wreathes.
One might think that while a cancer victim still breathes,
A little love might allow him in, to be
With his fellows and sisters in loving mutual support.  But not me.
For me, it was not allowed to be. 
I had to go through the holiday season alone and lonely.
So I had, last year, a near moment of madness.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
In my Cancer Clinic there is a meeting room. 
And in it, once a week, I with my support group once met.
The love and joy I found in there, with those warm loving people, I never will forget.
Nor can I forget the pain and loss I have felt since all of that was taken away from me.
So I had, last year, a near moment of madness.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The doctors have fast-track time to talk, then on to the next patient, next, and next.
The nurses and medical assistants are quick and effiecient. 
They do not notice if I grieve, when they tell me to roll up my sleeve--
For yet another IV--or for yet another blood draw.
They have no love,
Nor any time to say caring words, or put an arm around me, or to hold my hand--
As my fellow and sister cancer patients and the others in my support group used to do.
Neither do the adminstrators or office workers.  Crisp, clean, and quick.
So what, if it's your spiritual heart, too, and not just your body that is sick.
Afraid, or sad, you say?  Go see a psychiatrist!  You won't be missed.
So I had, last year, a near moment of madness.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
They tell you what to do, when to speak, and where to sit.  Their word is law.
They don't want any of the cancer patients making waves--
Not even the incurable and terminal ones, on our way to our graves.
Certainly not me.  I was not even allowed to sit in a certain chair,
Next to my good friend, who also has incurable cancer, when he was there,
Receiving chemo.  The chair was right next to my friend; and there were many empty chairs.
But I was told I could not sit there, next to my friend, comforting him with words of cheer.
When I asked why I couldn't sit there, I was given this reply:
"Why do you have to be so difficult?  Just get up, and go sit in that chair over there."
It was too far away from my friend for me to keep comforting him or for us to talk;
But I said no more, I meekly went where I was told--I knew if I didn't, I'd be told to take a walk.
I noticed that the whole time I and my friend were there, no one else sat in that nearby chair.
Why couldn't I have been allowed to keep sitting close to my friend?  Ask them, and ask God.
Only they know why.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
So this place,
Of gold-gathering that gives no grace,
Where terminal and incurable cancer patients like my friend and me 
Must spend so much of the time of our last days--
Has marred my mind, mutilated my heart, and mauled my malaise.
They have no sense of how precious are my last remaining days of glorious life.
While I must feel pain and sorrow and regret and anguish and terrible fear--
Caught between fear to stay, till the day of worst great pain, and the chilling fear to disappear--
They do not think that the solace of souls is any part of their job.  They do not care.
The image of their not caring is in my mind: My friend, sitting alone beside that empty chair.
The image of their not caring is in my mind: That meeting room,
Where I am kept unwelcome to be with my friends, despite my suffering and nearing doom.
A chair, or a room--it's really the same: Cancer is a gold-getting, money-making game.
As my friend and I slowly die, along with others, little caring is here on which we may lay claim.
Now the holiday season again is here, with all its brightness, singing, and holiday cheer.
When a bus hit my car, the day before an important hearing that could have eased my pain--
By giving me enough money at least to live under a roof, to pay for my health insurance,
To keep getting proper medical care, before going down my dark future's drawing drain--
I reached the breaking point, and the last limit of my endurance.
All I wanted in that moment was for all sorrow to end, all grief, all pain--I wanted it all to be over.
The world does not need me or want me anymore, though my lifetime envies my lost longevity.
The holiday season again is here.  This year, as I face forever,
I had a moment of madness.


=======================
Written by Michael LP
aka MLP, aka Mr. Poet, aka PoetWithCancer, aka PWC
(I'm just me)
Written on Sunday, November 14, 2010  4:45 pm 
68 degrees F.  Humidity: 25%  Forecast: Overcast
Copyright (C) 2011 by Michael L.P.  All rights reserved