The day was long,
with visits to clinics,
trying to find what was wrong.
The night was restless,
endless tossing and turning,
waiting for the morning,
waiting for the verdict.
In the morning
my temper rises.
Fear grips me.
Then comes my daughter.
She tells me—
“I have cancer.”
The news digs into my chest
like a dagger.
Then I am told
my breast would be removed.
I am shattered.
I am torn.
I begin my journey
into a new world—
going in and out of hospitals,
surviving
operation,
radiation,
chemotherapy.
For three years
I learn to live again,
as if nothing had happened.
Then one day
I am sick again.
My head wobbles.
My speech slurs.
My hands shake.
I cannot stand straight.
Once again,
the hospital bed.
This time I know
My journey is going to end.
Cancer has returned.
Now -
it has picked my brain.
I puke.
I soil my bed.
I am a child again.
Somehow,
I manage to go back home.
The days are tough.
Today this,
tomorrow that.
Slowly,
I settle into a life in bed.
I teach someone to cook,
so that when I am gone,
my food will still be served.
With help,
I sit with my husband
in the evenings.
I want to be normal again.
For six months
I continue the game.
Then comes another day.
I cannot lie down.
I choke.
I struggle to breathe.
My end is near.
My lungs grow heavy.
My soul struggles.
I cannot leave them behind.
I make one final effort.
I insist on sitting
with my husband.
My daughter lifts me
and props me up.
My last evening
I spend with my husband.
The next day,
7 November,
my journey ends.
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