Cancer Frags/Go to sleep, kid

Cancer Frags

Life on the inside

Go to sleep, kid

There is an unexpected social aspect to serious illness, understood best by the patient herself, now so unfit for hosting, and so much in demand. Demand fades when the illness is protracted and the convalescence long, but never completely—and oh, the burden of proprietary compassion. How surpassing the weariness of sensing, at farewell, that one fragile visitor has not been received as he or she might have wished—too late to be the first on the scene, too early to be the one who stayed the latest, too out-of-town to be the one who was called. No, not the one. I’m sorry, hon. No, not what’s important. These flowers will last. Yes, a long time, I’m sure. Thank you so much for coming.

Respite comes unawares in the unencumbered fellowship of others who have to be there, in a bed, or on the payroll, into whose gloved hands collapse is relief, purely. In the hospital, sleep is wakeful at best, and waking is always sleepy. "Shut your eyes, kid," said my night nurse, "and get some sleep." It must be about 3:00 in the morning. He is tall and manly, a shock of flaxen hair, the voice of Gregory Peck, and he has just refreshed my cocktail, speedy and with a muscular courtesy, like the best bartenders. What’ll it be, kid? Adriomyacin this week. A chemo classic. The one that turns your pee pink. This is good to know and smile about, because we are all afraid to see pee pinked by anything else ….

Oh, with what elegance and wit would I answer this tall man who reaches across the ambiguous night to call me "kid," were I not the hairless, one-eyed, sweaty pile of pus-crusted hospital-johnnie that I am this night. Alas.

I think of my grandfather, who was not a man of letters, nor many words, nor foolish haste. Once, a long long time ago, he used nine tiny pages of a grocery list to take field notes on an industrious black ant that had caught his attention, laboring across his shoe and then his great, still, manly ham hand, as he sat silently in his own kitchen.

My long convalescence has given me time, and the slowness to take similar note. There is something more to know about what has happened to me. Something is stealing into my thoughts with the subtlety and comfort of sunlight sliding over the sill. There is something marvelous here, something to marvel at, and very near.

—K.E.Watt, Brooklyn, NY

	BACK to WattWork / The Words
	Cancer Frags Life on the inside Go to sleep, kid There is an unexpected social aspect to serious illness, understood best by the patient herself, now so unfit for hosting, and so much in demand. Demand fades when the illness is protracted and the convalescence long, but never completely—and oh, the burden of proprietary compassion. How surpassing the weariness of sensing, at farewell, that one fragile visitor has not been received as he or she might have wished—too late to be the first on the scene, too early to be the one who stayed the latest, too out-of-town to be the one who was called. No, not the one. I’m sorry, hon. No, not what’s important. These flowers will last. Yes, a long time, I’m sure. Thank you so much for coming. Respite comes unawares in the unencumbered fellowship of others who have to be there, in a bed, or on the payroll, into whose gloved hands collapse is relief, purely. In the hospital, sleep is wakeful at best, and waking is always sleepy. "Shut your eyes, kid," said my night nurse, "and get some sleep." It must be about 3:00 in the morning. He is tall and manly, a shock of flaxen hair, the voice of Gregory Peck, and he has just refreshed my cocktail, speedy and with a muscular courtesy, like the best bartenders. What’ll it be, kid? Adriomyacin this week. A chemo classic. The one that turns your pee pink. This is good to know and smile about, because we are all afraid to see pee pinked by anything else …. Oh, with what elegance and wit would I answer this tall man who reaches across the ambiguous night to call me "kid," were I not the hairless, one-eyed, sweaty pile of pus-crusted hospital-johnnie that I am this night. Alas. I think of my grandfather, who was not a man of letters, nor many words, nor foolish haste. Once, a long long time ago, he used nine tiny pages of a grocery list to take field notes on an industrious black ant that had caught his attention, laboring across his shoe and then his great, still, manly ham hand, as he sat silently in his own kitchen. My long convalescence has given me time, and the slowness to take similar note. There is something more to know about what has happened to me. Something is stealing into my thoughts with the subtlety and comfort of sunlight sliding over the sill. There is something marvelous here, something to marvel at, and very near. —K.E.Watt, Brooklyn, NY © 2003, K. E. WATT. All rights reserved.
	BACK to WattWork / The Words