November 2, 2005

• A series of poems dedicated to my friend and roommate Joel (first entries posted in August of 2004 on this blog.)

  
  

  

  
  

  "The Cancerboy Diaries: Entry the 1st"
  poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  June 12, 2004 8:24 a.m. pdt © MFNyiri 2004

  
  

  You didn't listen too well perhaps
  But you always have been a stubborn sort
  I said I knew what you were bringing to the party
  But I was wrong as usual
  We've been "together" now for nearly a decade
  And the ball in your colon
  Had been "together" with you all that time too
  Now it is gone
  Your bad habits disappeared for a while suddenly
  But then re-appeared on the horizon of hellishness

  
  

  I wrote a poem about you
  But you don't like poetry
  So you won't read it
  I cursed you with tourettelike abandon
  in the hours when you slept unawares

  
  

  I come home to your drunkenness
  And lazy abandonment too often
  And now the recuperation period
  stays you here for what seems like an eternity

  
  

  And eternity for you is not a given, is it?
  You didn't listen too well perhaps
  When the solemn men in white coats diagnosed
  and the prognosis was denial in a diatribe

  
  

  Now two therapies later
  Nothing seems to have changed
  Nothing bothers you too much
  The TV still blares into my room at night
  The bottles still pile up on the
  sideboard by the sink
  The smoke still chokes me as it has for years

  
  

  We haven't changed
  The bastard tykes in the project
  still think we're queerguys
  We still ignore and berate and yell and scream
  And thanks for the hug that was sweet

  
  

  We're on a precipice together
  But you are the only one in danger of falling
  We're living a shared existence
  But you are the only one who might see it end soon
  We're like a couple of grannies with poor eyesight
  Who can't see the truth as it parades before us
  We're news junkies without a clue
  Responding to bellicose tirades and
  Uncertain soliliquies as if we understand
  Our differences.

  
  

  I say too often that I hate you old fool
  And you keep talking to the cats
  Everything is a comedy except the eventual outcome
  And I shall be hopeful that these entries
  Number many many numerals,
  As the cancer stops it's course
  And as the therapy poisons
  And as we renew the bonds
  Which made me say I knew what you were bringing to the party
  In the first place.

  
  

  "The Cancerboy Diaries: Entry the 2nd"
  poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  August 31, 2004 8:41 p.m. pdt © MFNyiri 2004

  
  

  The sickness still hasn't happened yet,
  and it's what,the ninth treatment?
  I keep telling you you're the poster boy
  For Chemotherapy
  Nothing seems to upset the apple cart
  And when thousands see their hair fall out
  And spend a good deal of time kneeling by the toilet
  You have come through without a scrape
  And good tidings are born by your disposition.

  
  

  We both thought things were going to be worse now
  Didn't we?
  But thank the Godhead, the Natural Way,
  The random patterns of existence
  Thank the Lord, Chance, Health, and Kismet's folly
  You are looking like a winner in a loser's game
  And I know I can't be a third as thankful as you are.

  
  

  As the time lapses into uncertain sameness
  As the hours pass unheeded and un-needed
  As the weight of time's coffin slowly recedes
  You seem to have some time for levity
  For brevity of endless doubts
  And for this I am happy for you
  And I know you are happy for this outcome as well

  
  

  But what is the outcome?
  What is the prognosis several weeks from now?
  Are the drugs and the poison just settling in
  For a long stay?
  And are you ready for the occurrences of time
  On that future day?
  I guess we shall have to wait and see
  And hope for the best possibility 

  
  

  "The Cancerboy Diaries: Entry the 3rd"
  poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  December 3, 2004 5:11 a.m. pst © MFNyiri 2004

  
  

  It's all over now, or is it?
  That's the questions on our minds this week
  The last week of the treatments
  Knock wood

  
  

  I know I can't believe it's been as long
  As it has been, this waiting
  With you seemingly the same
  Little change
  Same habits,
  Except of course the sleepiness that
  arrives a couple of hours after each injection
  And now those injections,
  for all intense intents and purpose
  Are succeeding in eradication
  Or so we hope again and won't know
  Until that fateful doctor's visit on the ninth

  
  

  Your stamina remained, as did those bad habits
  The cigarette smoke still swirls above your head
  The beer bottles still pile up on the sideboard
  (although you've been forced to drink them warm
  because of the treatment's drawbacks)

  
  

  The pills and the pills to counteract the other pills
  Thankfully you have not had to suffer much
  The Picc line in your arm,
  An answer to the bruising that could have
  Spread thanks to the loss of platelets
  Which served to clot your blood in better times
  Failed and spit the saline solution
  So they removed it last week
  It made you look like a Frankenstien monster
  With a permanent vein in your arm dangling

  
  

  Now the Picc line is removed
  As in hopes so is the cancer
  But no one knows
  Or they're not telling yet.

  
  

  Stay well.
  We pray
  You're a real asshole at times (and I speak as a comrade in arms
  in that department)
  But I don't want you to go away from this life yet
  You're too young to die
  Fingers crossed, let's hope the train has
  reached it's destination
  and you can get off this trip
  Good luck buddy

  
  

  "The Cancerboy Diaries: Entry the 4th"
  poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  November 2, 2005 4:40 a.m. pst © MFNyiri 2004

  
  

  This morning, a year hence from the last entry in this series
  I was thinking of summing up the story, turning the last page
  Eliminating the doubt from last year's diary doldrums
  But then I remembered
  The "bad news" received a few weeks ago
  has not been finalized,
  and so I was not prepared to write
  until I knew, with you,
  what to expect
  from the rest of your life
  A year has passed.
  A year spent knowing that
  Careless Cancer, in remission,
  was silent, soothingly absent from reality
  You stopped smoking and drinking again
  This time for over three months
  You wouldn't clean the ashtray in the sink however
  and it sits, still there, filled with smoky water
  I tell you I hate your inattention to cleanliness
  even as I slip deeper under your influence
  in our shared existence together
  "The doctor said he was worried"
  These were the words, which
  keeping you on those pins and needles
  of needless unbelieving wonder
  you kept repeating to yourself
  You missed your last appointment.
  How can you even remember
  all the meds and the doctors and
  the pain and the unwary unknowing
  The constant teetertottering of disdainful
  implications
  How can you stand it?
  How indeed.
  The news probably doesn't want to be heard.

  
  

  
  I didn't write that entry,
  and then I saw you sitting in your chair
  whilst arriving home last night.
  Drunk as usual,
  Upset and arrogant
  Irritatingly lovable but lachrymose
  Home alone during the day
  I figured you must have had another appointment
  But I was preoccupied
  And didn't want to hear your shit
  Cause I have problems of my own.
  Later of course you told me of the final problem
  And my own problems disappeared without a trace.
  The cancer is back.
  No amount of pamphlets engineered to
  "prolong survival"
  can disguise the truth of the situation
  No amount of pallid predictions
  can serve to soothe the salacious statements
  Simmering in your psyche
  The cancer is back.

  
  

  As these words are typed into the processor
  I have no idea if this is the next to last
  entry in the Cancerboy Diaries.
  Or if miracles do happen,
  and the course of death can be detoured
  if but for a moment
  We laughed last night
  (what can we do? cry?)
  and talked of parachutes and hang gliders
  and gambling trips to Vegas
  and 2000 dollar hookers
  We laughed last night
  and now I think of you anon my friend
  and turn the pages of the diary again
  And write about inconclusive adjudicators of
  Existence and happiness on this planet
  I pray you have a good time while you can
  And that the next entry in the diary
  is a postive one
  I can only pray, hope, and dream
  But you have to live,
  and die,
  with this burden.

  
  

  (NOTE: These poems are part of an ongoing series of poems detailing my friend and room-mate's response to the chemotherapy treatments associated with the removal of his colon cancer in April of 2004. I stopped writing when his cancer went into remission early this year.  I just now wrote the fourth entry, dated 11/2/05. I wrote the first entry in June of 2004. The "painting" is nothing more than a photograph "enhanced" in the picture publisher "special effects module" as an oil painting, and then "tweaked" with my digital brush. 

  
  

   For anyone wondering about the somewhat detrimental nickname "cancerboy", I bestowed this name on my friend Joel shortly after he was diagnosed, and it is used partly in jest, and with his full knowledge that I call him this on the internet. It is a play on my own nickname, "Analboy".

  
  

  Please pray for Joel. He is a bit of an a-hole, but he doesn't deserve this. He is only 49 years old. Our friend Bob died of a heart attack at 47 in 1994, and our friend Dan (The Crazy Canuck) died of complications from lieukemia early last year at 52. I have always written about the circle of friends getting smaller. Joel's doctor said he has roughly three more years to live, and besides having to undergo the chemotherapy again, he is going to be given another drug to hopefully prolong his life as long as possible. It is a sad day today. MFN

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