A different note...

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For those of you who read the last post, here's the good news. I had been worried about a gradual increase in pain in my sternum, and had planned to tell my doctor at my scheduled treatment today. Before I could mention it, he asked if the wisdom tooth I'd had a root canal in (to minimize the risk Zometa treatment causes, of osteonecrosis of the jaw) had pretty much settled down, because he wanted to put me back on the Zometa. Then he asked if I'd had an increase in achiness in my breastbone. He said that many women notice that if they go off the Zometa. So the increasing pain that I feared meant that the cancer was worsening may in fact be simply because the normal reforming of bone just slowed down with the withdrawal of Zometa. I felt somewhat reassured. I resumed treatment with Zometa in addition to the Herceptin today.

And I had an amazingly creative time as I sat in the infusion room. I wrote a poem that will be part of a breast cancer-themed artwork, and also wrote a poem about a significant experience I had several years ago, which can be a stand-alone poem but which I'll also probably put with an image, possibly an altered vintage postcard. Here it is.
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For the She-Wolf and Her Pups

PUTNAM and THE WOLF - Plaque at Wolf Den
Following her tracks through one day and night in the early snow of December 1742 to the Connecticut River and back, the early settlers of this region here discovered the den of the she wolf that had for years devastated their flocks and had so far eluded all attempts at capture. After all other methods had failed, when both servant and dog held back, Israel Putnam, 70 of whose sheep had been slaughtered, at 10 o'clock at night, with a rope tied to his feet, first with a torch, again with a musket, entered this cave, and by the light of her angry eyes, shot and killed the marauder, and entering - a third time, dragged forth the body of the last wolf in Connecticut.

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"HE DARED TO LEAD WHERE OTHERS DARED TO FOLLOW"

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On a gray day

in November

We walked the rocky trails

by Mashmoquet Brook.

..

I saw witch hazel

thin, long petals like yellow ribbons

shivering in small bursts of breeze;

armies of chattering chipmunks

calling, distracted,

skittering over the she-wolf's den.

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I heard low growling

that no one else could hear.

Perhaps what Firewalker

of the North said

is true.

"You walk

with cat spirits, May",

he said.

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Apart, I prayed.
Forgive me, young ones,
I mean you no harm.
Forgive me.
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................................---May Terry
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