CHEMO / by David Jones

Chemo brings a rash and a reminder that cancer is a son of a bitch. A lump shares real estate with a heart, and it’s squatting harder and deeper than the nails holding the wall to a cluster of family photos, all slightly askew.  

Suddenly the country doctor is not a kindly cliché.  There’ll be 12 weeks of chemo, followed by radiation, he says.  Without surgery, which is not an option at present, there’s a ten-percent chance of survival beyond six months. Shit odds, for sure.  

Drip, drip, drip. Five hours of hope and poison. The bruising on the arm says it all.

It’s stage three, in the lymph nodes, too. 

Fuck.