By Subramaniam Cheemalapati
PAPILLARY CARCINOMA
Four hours of sleep, they said, would see it through.
But pressure rose, and so the date was moved.
Two days I waited. Then the surgeons knew
the time had come; the growth would be removed.
They cut the thyroid, and the growth, and more,
the nodes as well, in case the sickness spread.
I touched my neck and felt the wound still sore,
raw at the throat, as if I'd nearly bled.
The lab confirmed what no one wants to hear:
papillary carcinoma, out loud.
I went quite numb. Two tears came, sharp and clear.
The doctor spoke. One hope was still allowed:
"This is the safest one, and caught in time."
I held those words. I made his comfort mine.
Subramaniam Cheemalapati is a writer based in Mysore. His work explores memory, family, faith, caregiving, and place. He is working on a memoir, a literary novel, and personal essays.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems
Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles