The Color Of Cancer

This is the first poem I've written about having breast cancer since my diagnosis in Dec. 2007. I wanted to write one about cancer, and knew it was inside me (no pun intended....) It just took a while to work its way out. When you find out you have cancer, this complete and utter fear invades every part of you. I just kept wondering, "how big is it?", "where exactly is it?", "what shape is it?", "how fast is it growing?", and also wondered, "what color is cancer?" I feel this poem explains all the images I believed cancer to be.

The Color Of Cancer

If cancer had color,
would it be bright red with horror-
its heartless vines stretching
like fresh blood spatter on a wall?

Or maybe purple-
royally empowered with greed,
plundering poor cells and leaving no survivors?

Do I imagine it yellow-
oozing sickly jaundice,
while weakening the body, turning strength into stench?

Or possibly blue-
frosty and unfeeling,
like a cold I.V. slowly dripping icy fear?

I can picture it green-
sprouting spores of fresh fungus,
rapidly spreading poisonous polyps.

I once thought it black-
casting pure evil, cursing my soul,
a Salem witch hanging heavy on my heart.

But now know it’s white-
cut out with my breasts
cleansed free, I own breath,
my baptism of birth and a gift of my worth.

Pink

My daughter's room is now pink,... well half pink. One side is painted a bright, fresh pink, while the other side hangs in limbo - waiting for the weekend. Last night, I stood in her doorway and stared at the walls. I remembered a time long ago when I was allowed to paint my room any color I wanted. I was so excited. That same excitement has been shining in my daughter's eyes for days. But her pink almost didn't happen. Her pink was almost a raging, pink river staining everything in it's path.

I told her to be patient. I told her to wait until her dad got home. But she just couldn't wait. As I came into the kitchen from watering my garden, I found my daughter rolling her younger sister's scooter across my kitchen floor. With one hand she was holding the wobbling handlebar of the scooter, while her other hand was locked around the thin, metal handle of the huge, teetering paint bucket.

I jumped into action! Grabbing the metal handle of the paint bucket, I swooped the full and very heavy bucket off the scooter. Clutching the pink paint, I staggered out the backdoor and into the garage. Moments before I set the bucket down, the lid slid off and slapped onto the garage floor. Small droplets of pink paint smattered and exploded onto our legs, arms and face. The two of us looked like we had the pink pox. I stared at my daughter, my eyes narrowing and squinting like only a mother can do- and in that moment, my daughter realized that the lid to the paint bucket had never been secure.

I never had to say another word. She knew that look. She knew that a guardian angel had been perched on her shoulder for that very impulsive split second. She knew how our kitchen had just barely escaped a pink, flash flood that would've swept everything away in it's path. She knew. Sometimes you don't need words,.... sometimes you just have to imagine how belligerent the color pink can be.