COME BACK IN A YEAR

‘Essentially clear’, the report read,

but what did ‘essentially’ mean?

“Come back in a year!” the doctor said,

smiling a smile that implied

that she knew best

but what is best, I wondered?  She said

“See if you can rest.”

I accept the categories of anxiety

that Paul Tillich described when struggling

to splint the German psyche

shattered with shame after the Holocaust.

Worry over purposelessness,

guilt and death, he said, mark our existence –

natural, unavoidable qualities of our lives as mortals,

of our separation from our essence –

the Ground of all Being, as he termed God.

Tillich’s explorations may not exactly resonate

but cancer of the breast feels like

a little holocaust. Captives in white gowns

with bald heads, we participate in trials of new drugs,

lie down for weeks of x-ray in dark bunkers.

We move in small spaces with high walls seeking peace,

with threats over summer holidays and seeing our grandkids grow.

So when six months passed, undressed,

I found a new lump, there was no further need

for puzzling adjectives like ‘essentially’.

The report was clear. “Next stage,” the doctor said

adding kindly, “See if you can rest.”