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This is a poem I wrote while sitting in the hospital, up all night, watching my father as he recovered from surgery. That was two and a half years ago and he has since made it into the tiny 5% margin of those who survive pancreatic cancer.
Words
Daddy
That’s a word I haven’t used
in a while.
But lately it has been slipping
from my lips like
paper on the wind,
floating through my mind
and resting in my heart
which has been slowly
dripping lead into the
pit of my stomach
ever since I heard the word Daddy
coupled with another word.
Cancer.
That word has brought on a torrent of
words
that have flooded my world
ever since.
Pancreas, surgery, the Whipple procedure,
prognosis, survival rates, chemo, radiation,
treatments, hospital stays, stage and spread,
next of kin, living will, pathology report, and
on and on.
Too many words.
My head is heavy.
I worry, wait, and wonder
as I long to hear the word
Daddy
coupled with another word.
Remission.