Etchings

June 13, 2025

No major updates today.

It’s a long chemo week, starting Monday and I’ll keep you posted as things unfold.

The good news? I’m walking on my own again, though I’m rocking a sick-ass cane for support. If I’m going to limp, I might as well do it with style.

Early this morning, I was flipping through some old notes and came across something I started during my last hospital stay. It was one of those long, restless nights, the kind broken up by blood draws and quiet beeping machines. I cleaned it up a bit, and figured it was time to share.

I call it Etchings

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Etchings

The backs of my hands, the bends of my arms,

a canvas of purple blooms and fading gold,

like I spent the night modeling for a Jackson Pollock piece,

if he’d traded paintbrushes for hypodermics.

Each mark, a tiny memoir,

scribed by nursing staff with stormtrooper precision,

aiming for veins,

but often finding emptiness instead.

I tried to warn them: “my veins roll,”

“It’s easier in the hand.” I said,

a truth learned from too many jabs and failed starts.

But confidence wore scrubs that day,

and didn’t feel like listening.

So they aimed for the crook of the elbow,

with the certainty of a map,

and none of the terrain.

These aren’t epic battle scars;

no dragons slain, no heroes crowned.

Just timestamps of midnight draws,

surprise visits,

and the quiet promise of “You won’t even feel it.”

(Lies. I did.)

It’s not the pain that lingers.

It’s the whisper of each bruise:

Still here! Still fighting!

A soft chant beneath the skin.

Maybe, when this chapter fades,

when the needles rest and color drains,

what’s left won’t be scars to hide,

but proof,

etched gently,

that I made it through.

-C…