Nature Grows Art

I find peace in soul-feeding art that is Nature-made: trees defleshed by time, stones caressed by sun and rain and snow… to be cairned by hands that love, love, love to write in bones that echo the wild song of leaves that can no longer tongue the wind.

Nature
grows art
out of death…
to delight the wild
living.

bloom and fruit
adorn my garden
before fall

Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

A One-Breasted Witchy Woman and a Piano Man Enter the ER…

First, a poetic spell that feels too appropriate not to re-share right now:

 

“Healing a Wish”

I call on you, betrayer of living flesh,
cracker of bones… I name you mine,
I hammer my intent into your core.

My will—never you!—dances
in the red of my blood, throbs
in my center and in my limbs

and in the roots of all that is Me,
I’m blooming you dry, pain of mine,
making dandy fluff out of lion’s teeth,

unbinding hurts, healing a wish.

 

And now, a (not so) wee note about the last few days…

My mastectomy went super well (my Piano Man and I have considered proposing to my surgeon 😊). But the aftercare (nutrition, in particular) was nothing to brag about. You can just imagine how thrilled we were to go home. So thrilled, that we didn’t double check my meds. The doctor who discharged me told us I was going home with the same stuff I had been taking, we were handed a bag, and we split.

Once on the road, I went through the meds and noticed the attending physician had given me the wrong medication. I wanted to scream. But I didn’t. Although, trusted sources suggest that I might have cursed the idiocy of the attending (and my lack of judgment) once or thrice. You see, my Wicked Luvs, I had already voiced concerns about the competency of the physician in question. But I was soooooooooo ready to go home (you can tell by my excessive use of Os). Anyway, I called my surgeon, she instructed me to go to my local ER to get the right medication, and to call her if they gave me trouble—New York (and the VA) are rather careful, when it comes to controlled substances (I support this 100%, since I have seen some terrible things).

When my Piano Man and I entered the emergency room, my teeth were chattering from cold. I was walking a bit crocked, and the spot where my right boob used to be hurt enough to make the rest of me twitch oddly every now and again. To make things even more interesting, Nature’s violent mood swings had sent temperatures from 90s to 50s in about a day. My sexy flesh and bones and I had not adjusted yet.

I walked into the emergency room trembling, twitching, neck cocked in the well-known confused bird position, with at least 5 needle marks from my elbow to my hand, holding a bag of controlled substances, grinning my well-known (slightly psychotic) grin, and asking for controlled substances. You can probably imagine the general reaction… Don’t feel bad if you are laughing, my Piano Man and I laughed too (once we realized how ludicrous the whole thing looked).

Maybe I looked too happy for someone who had said adios to a booby fewer than 24 hours earlier. Maybe my eternal grin didn’t fit the situation. Maybe the shivering and teeth chattering (provoked by the freezing hospital) looked too much like withdrawal. I don’t know what prompted it, but the ER doctor questioned me and my request long enough to annoy my Piano Man, my love doesn’t annoy easily.

I called my surgeon. And after she gave the ER doctor a piece of her mind, he said that he would give me enough medication until Monday. After he finished checking my records and looking at my chest, he blanched a bit, gave me the same amount of medication my surgeon prescribed, and began treating me like a human being. He was even kind after that… and assigned me a nurse who kept repeating how strong I was, and how she couldn’t believe that I was so light on my feet and could be so self-sufficient without taking meds after my body endured such trauma (I had not taken any pain medication in almost 24 hours… and I was mostly fine).

Things are quite good now. My body (all the maiming and tummy issues aside) is a trooper—I didn’t need any morphine while I was in the hospital, I took some of the heavy meds last night (I needed it after a long car ride and doing battle at the ER). I took some Tylenol this morning and will likely take some more before bed. I don’t need much help moving around or getting what I need, but… who am I to rob my Piano Man of the chance of being even more incredible than he usually is, right?

Now, we are keeping our fingers (and toes) crossed, as we wait for the lymph nodes pathology… which will dictate whether I’ll need chemo or not. I’m hoping for not. But if yes… I shall rock the bald head look (and accidentally on purpose aim all my puke in the direction of people I dislike… for therapeutic purposes, of course). 😉

 

it’s cloudy outside, but my wee garden remains sunny

my passiflora bloomed a gift for me

for those of you not on Facebook or Instagram, here is the glory of my witchy grin right after the de-boobing

 

Part of What Makes Me

I play with my fruit, talk to tart and sweet alike, let my tongue (and teeth) love it from peel to flesh to seed… I love a good piece of fruit, invite its lush to fill me, to become part of what makes me, to see the shape of me (from the inside).

I found a moist heart
chilling, just staring at me,
begging for a bite

 

“Passionflowers are weeds”, you say to me, your disdain for the bohemian bloom as ludicrous as the possibility of your opinion mattering to my garden (or to me).

“I’ve always thought of you as invasive, parasitical, and not at all pretty”, I say to you. “Aren’t you glad that laws (and people) I respect find you useful?”

my passion
flowers in wild twists,
by nature

 

My favorite place in the hospital blooms and buzzes in July. The chant feeds my all. I sit on grass, thoughts crowned by coneflowers, fingertips slow dancing with soil. Passersby glance, smile, or shake their heads (as if trying to dispel the slow-death escaping the chimneys they have made of their nostrils). The honeyed buzz, the life-song, the winged dance is ended by puffs of smoke. The coneflowers and I droop a little, wondering why…

bees and blooms
do it perfectly,
why not us?

 

Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.