left hand, left hip.

Take a moment.
Lay down, flat on your back.

Like a game of Twister, let me direct your steps, your actions.

Left hand, left hip. Feel part of that bone pertruding partially? Feel the very top, its round shape. Memorize its size.

Whenever I’m laying on the couch, on my bed, on the ground, I feel myself instinctually go through that motion. Left hand, left hip. Feel the very top, its round shape. Memorize its size. I’m fumbling, trying to grasp at where the cancer is exactly there. Why can’t I feel it? It’s there, yes? Right hand, right hip. Compare it. Still don’t feel it. Where is it?

It’s very hard to imagine that it is there, somewhere. But I saw it on the images, the pictures, the PET scan, the MRI. The dot on the pelvis glowing, cancer glowing where it shouldn’t be. Invader cells in collaboration, conjunction.  But I can’t feel it! I can’t see it! Are you sure it’s there? I trust you, I promise. But shouldn’t it be a bit more obvious, not so (in eery and scarey ways) be so connected to my body, as a part of my bone itself? So strange this cancer.

Left hand, left hip. Feel part that bone. Feel the very top, its round shape. Memorize its size. We will feel it going down, invisible shape shrinking, touch for touch, cell by cell.

One thought on “left hand, left hip.

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