“It’s only minor surgery,” she said.
“I’m ppp-pretty sure we can fix it.”
Unconvinced, I shifted my eyes to
the monitor registering data.
Beep, click, scratch, hum.
I think I asked where
the cancer was located because
she used words like nebulous,
spreading and vigorous instead of
words that I had hoped for like
concentrated, small and easy.
“I thought you said it would be minor,”
I protested. Her response was long,
contained many pauses and
complicated hand gestures.
I noticed how oily her skin was as
she talked, perhaps because she
was very old, but then again, I’m no
doctor.
I might have been in the office for
4 hours or 4 weeks, I cannot be
entirely sure. She sent me on my
way with a whole bunch of papers
and pamphlets that I’ll likely never
read.
As I left, I got in my car and had a
feeling come over me. “I should tell
somebody.” But after a while,
no one came to mind.
*This poem is based off a threewordwednesday.com prompt.
Tyler Strittmatter 
you’ve captured the fear and the shock perfectly.
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Thank you. It was an interesting poem to write. I have never had cancer, but my father has. That’s the thing about writing I suppose, a chance to walk in another’s shoes.
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