And What About Death?
Recently, a relative came into town for a family occasion. She had just read/reread my newest book of poems, Taking Stock. She told me that either I was really depressed and in need of medication or that I used my poems to work things out. Another friend told me this book is more introspective, melancholy, sadder than the first two. Finally, a high school classmate told me: “At times I had to put the book down because your emphasis on dying was so strong. I enjoyed the last poem because you ended the collection on a positive note.”
Whew. I went into the book and 28 of the 75 poems deal directly or indirectly with death. Hmmm. Guess there was an underlying theme oozing out of my subconscious. I don’t see this as morbid, though. And in some ways, I have thought I’m drifting away from understanding death.
When I was diagnosed with prostate cancer in 2001, while I sure wanted to live, the idea of death was clear to me, not scary, just there in, perhaps, the not-too-distant future. During the years that followed, I was fearful each three months when I had a new PSA test. I was afraid of the cancer metastasizing, of the pain if it went into my bone marrow. But death itself was clear, not scary, just there.
As the years have gone on and my tests have moved to each six months, I have grown a bit nonchalant about the whole thing. In years past I called within days of each blood test, heart pounding, to hear whether my PSA was still zero. I find I am forgetting to call now, and, when I remember, don’t.
Recently, I’ve struggled with what to call myself. It’s more than I had cancer. It’s more than I was operated on for cancer. Somehow, cancer survivor seems odd to me. I settled on ex-cancer patient, which seems to place me correctly in time and uncertainty.
I listened to NPR the other day and heard a NY Times reporter talk about his prostate cancer and treatment and how he had shaved his head, changed his normal clothing choices as a way to say he’s different now and always will be.
It got me in touch with the apparent normalcy in which I lead my life. You could say that’s okay, one shouldn’t live in the shadow of illness, conjure the closeness of death. Yes, true. On the other hand, besides the dampening of the fear of death that came with cancer, I was lucid about everything around me. I wonder what I have gained in these eight years and what I have lost, which gets back to where this all started: poems that are about death.
I still write them. There are some more in the pile that one day might make its way into another poetry book. Perhaps I am still in tune with my 2001 grounding, but it’s moved from an everyday presence to something parked in my brain that comes out now and again and, hopefully, again.
I’m working on a poem now …
Whew. I went into the book and 28 of the 75 poems deal directly or indirectly with death. Hmmm. Guess there was an underlying theme oozing out of my subconscious. I don’t see this as morbid, though. And in some ways, I have thought I’m drifting away from understanding death.
When I was diagnosed with prostate cancer in 2001, while I sure wanted to live, the idea of death was clear to me, not scary, just there in, perhaps, the not-too-distant future. During the years that followed, I was fearful each three months when I had a new PSA test. I was afraid of the cancer metastasizing, of the pain if it went into my bone marrow. But death itself was clear, not scary, just there.
As the years have gone on and my tests have moved to each six months, I have grown a bit nonchalant about the whole thing. In years past I called within days of each blood test, heart pounding, to hear whether my PSA was still zero. I find I am forgetting to call now, and, when I remember, don’t.
Recently, I’ve struggled with what to call myself. It’s more than I had cancer. It’s more than I was operated on for cancer. Somehow, cancer survivor seems odd to me. I settled on ex-cancer patient, which seems to place me correctly in time and uncertainty.
I listened to NPR the other day and heard a NY Times reporter talk about his prostate cancer and treatment and how he had shaved his head, changed his normal clothing choices as a way to say he’s different now and always will be.
It got me in touch with the apparent normalcy in which I lead my life. You could say that’s okay, one shouldn’t live in the shadow of illness, conjure the closeness of death. Yes, true. On the other hand, besides the dampening of the fear of death that came with cancer, I was lucid about everything around me. I wonder what I have gained in these eight years and what I have lost, which gets back to where this all started: poems that are about death.
I still write them. There are some more in the pile that one day might make its way into another poetry book. Perhaps I am still in tune with my 2001 grounding, but it’s moved from an everyday presence to something parked in my brain that comes out now and again and, hopefully, again.
I’m working on a poem now …
posted by Bud Hirsch at 4:21 PM
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