Getting Better
I want it to work so bad, I feel sick with it. The hope is crowding into my throat, And making me giddy. Maybe there is something wrong with me, But maybe it's something they can fix. And I start smiling just thinking about it. I told myself that I'd go to the doctors one last time. That I'd tell them all my symptoms again, Let them run all their tests, Give all their suggestions, Refer me to whatever specialist they want. And once they ran out of steam, Once they gave up, I would too. I would stop looking for answers and I'd just take it on the chin. Accept my consequences, so to speak. But maybe they'll find something this time! And it's a common dream. I'm always falling for their assurances and convictions. It's never paned out. Maybe it will, says the small part of me I thought died ten years ago. Maybe there's a chance of being better. I hardly dare to dream it, Lest I jinx myself. I find myself crying, Imagining what I could be. Imagining that I might be fixable. Imagining that it might not be all my fault. It's almost strange to think that I might not be like this someday. Like being asked to take off a coat that is sewn into your skin. What if I have nothing to me anymore? I've thought this before, Before my first surgery, I thought, If I get better, I might not be worth anything anymore. And then I didn't get better, so the thought was null and void. The fear remains, though. I've never been without it. In ways, it's the only reliable thing I own. What if, under all this, just me is left? I don't even know who she is. And then, it doesn't matter, Because the professionals hit a road block again. My doctor said I'm her biggest mystery. I can relate to that. She wants me to come in when I'm in my most pain, She wants me to schedule an appointment for it. So, I haven't called back. I'm still debating if I will, even though I've been dying in pain the last few days. I think I'm in the process of giving up. It's hard, when the hope comes crashing down, Fast and heavy, splatting against the pavement, Broken and unmoving, it's lying there, It's dying. There's gravel in its wounds, in the open cuts, And bones sticking out at odd ends. I kneel down to try to help, Blood on my hands, Tears streaming down my face, And the Hope, it sort of just, Sinks into the asphalt. In a hiss of steam, It becomes one with the Earth. I'm almost jealous. So, I'm not getting better. This will probably never stop. No one has the answers or the solutions to help me, No one is coming to save me. It'll just be me, Writhing and thrashing in pain, No relief. It can be very lonely, When there's nothing anyone can do for you. No one can be in my body with me, Sympathize with me. They can just watch and wait for me to get okay again. Pretend it didn't happen. They can pretend for me. But there's times when it doesn't hurt. The ever elusive "good days". They are an inevitability. I can wait for those, Even though I know it'll get bad again. Inevitable too. And I don't think that there's a different me, One that isn't in pain. I think we're probably the same. Not sure if I hope we are or not, though. I think this is just something that happens. That's okay, I guess. Everything will spin on as it were, And I'll be here, testing my toes in the water to see if it's a good day or a bad one. I'll repeat it to myself. It'll just be me. Maybe this is getting better.
- janina bee
