Radiation Reflection, Day 20

What are you doing when no one is looking?

My hand moves across paper, writing words
to make sense of this -
but I know this does make sense,
because I am human,
and all humans who live long enough
get sick.
I may be young, but I’m not immune.

I am scanning the internet on my phone,
reading breast cancer stories on Reddit
late into the night, the screen light
turning my face blue.
I’m looking for a friend
or stranger
who understands.

I am taking my blood pressure in the bathroom -
it’s high again -
I sigh -
hope my heart can withstand
its own stress.

I am in our guest room sleeping alone post surgery,
my left arm above my head -
the only way it’s comfortable.
The sheets smell like Tide
and a bracelet on my wrist smells like bergamot -
an essential oil sent from a friend.

I am closing my eyes and imagining running
on a San Diego beach in December
with Travis.

I am examining maroon and
meadow-colored bruises,
navy-blue stitches
on my chest,
and a new crescent moon scar.

I am completing grad school homework -
the minimum amount needed
to get a good grade, and I wonder
how much any of this matters.

I am trying to make a decision that feels impossible -
do I significantly alter my body,
get a double mastectomy,
even though a radiologist compared the cancer
to the size of the tip of her pinky finger?
Or, do I hold my breath
and hope radiation doesn’t scar my heart?

I am dancing in the living room
to my favorite songs.

In the car, I am listening
to audio recordings of
my medical appointments
so that I can make final
decisions.

I am crying in my mom’s bathtub,
surrounded by bubbles.
I am about to begin radiation,
and the U.S. is going to bomb Iran,
and I’m going to see Brandi Carlile
in concert that night,
and in this moment,
everything feels too big.

I am in a thrift store dressing room
trying on button-up mens shirts
with fruit and animal patterns.
Then I’m home scrolling Amazon
for camisoles and tank tops for radiation.
I want perfect items
to throw away after they’re
stained with Aquaphor.

I am driving my car,
holding tightly to the steering wheel
with both hands,
doing breathing exercises from the Finch app,
breathing exercises from the Buddhist Center,
any breathing exercise I can think of
to get me to campus or the cancer center.

I am taking pictures.
Pictures of my outfit of the day -
always a wild button-down shirt that will have
an Aquaphor grease stain on the left side
once I sit in the drivers’ seat
and a seatbelt crosses my chest.
Pictures of my radiation burn
increasing each week.
Pictures of my toes.
Pictures of blossoms.
Pictures of the tree outside the cancer center -
it’s changing in front of me.

I am looking in the mirror,
tracing my radiation burn with three fingers -
a pink square around my left breast,
into my armpit and down my left side.

I am hoping I made the right decisions.