Above where your right breast used to be
\nthe oncologist implanted a port to make things easier.
\n\u201cIt takes forever,\u201d you say. \u201cAn hour\u2019s drive, each
\nway, an entire day used up, laying
\nthere.\u201d<\/p>\n
But first, the tourniquet, tied to your upper arm,
\nthe cheery nurse, tapping for a working vein,
\nyour thick blood at last flooding into one syringe
\nafter another. Then the weigh-in, each time
\nless. \u201cBone and skin now,\u201d you say.<\/p>\n
If your numbers are good, you head
\nto the chemo room, rows of cushy
\nrecliners, supplicants tethered to plastic bags
\nheld high by IV poles, a forest of metal trees.<\/p>\n
You unbutton your blouse, offer up the convenient
\nport to a flush of saline–like ocean, you tell me,
\nlike waves.<\/p>\n
Next, the chemicals, those shimmering droplets
\nriding the plastic tube into your chest, <\/p>\n
a kind red blanket, thrown
\nover your legs. <\/p>\n
I tear the best New Yorker<\/em> short stories We both know you\u2019re dying, though your When the chemo bags are empty, Appointment days, you\u2019d leave the house, Each evening you\u2019d return to your You made me promise not to tell. Above where your right breast used to be the oncologist implanted a port to make things easier. \u201cIt takes forever,\u201d you say. \u201cAn hour\u2019s drive, each way, an entire day used up, laying there.\u201d But first, the tourniquet, tied to your upper arm, the cheery nurse, tapping for a working vein, your thick blood at […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":647,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[52],"tags":[25],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6Jypy-3yU","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13696"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/647"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=13696"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13696\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":13697,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13696\/revisions\/13697"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=13696"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=13696"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=13696"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nfrom the magazine and mail them
\nto you in Port Townsend.
\nSomething to pass the time. Something non-
\nmedical to discuss when we chat each week.<\/p>\n
\nhusband still has faith, and you cling to his
\nhope, coming back week after week because
\nit makes his life bearable.<\/p>\n
\nand the stories read, you leave the pages behind
\nfor a needful stranger.
\nIn 2000, when you lost your breast,
\nyour husband insisted you have
\nchemo then, too.
\n\u201cIt makes me feel more dead than alive,\u201d
\nyou confessed to me after the first week.<\/p>\n
\ndrive to the woods, walk the trails
\ninstead of treatment, those
\nhuge redwood trees shading your path.<\/p>\n
\nhusband\u2019s innocent embrace. <\/p>\n
\nAnd I never did, until now. <\/p>\nAlexis Rhone Fancher<\/a><\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"