The First Night

I was proactive.

I needed a doctor.

That was all that mattered to me.

I had cancer now and I needed a doctor.

It was all simple and logical

and I looked up my insurance online

and researched doctors

and called back my gynecologist

who hours ago

told me with his sad

patient voice

that it was cancer

that he was so sorry

and that I needed to find a surgeon.

On the train ride home

my husband and I

talked business.

We got pizza.

I did not feel distressed.

I had a problem.

My problem was cancer.

I needed a solution

My solution was a doctor.

When you have cancer you need a doctor.

It was simple and clean and clear.

That night, later

I swallowed down scotch

Because I was 37 and I had cancer

and climbed into bed

determined to have a doctor

by the next day.

Instead I woke

with a thing on my chest

a terror I have never known

like a bird that circled

all night

and waited till I was sleeping

to hook it’s claws

into the meat of me.

And I tried to sit up

shallow panicked breaths

gulping for air

like a dying thing

like a bloody shot

dying thing

begging the universe

asking

Why me?

Why me?

Why me?

Fucking christ

Why me?