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Chemo, Puberty & the Fourth Watch

by Patrick Cornwall

Wake up—rush for the toilet, say my prayers.
Stomach races, chasing bowels,
anxious like horses shot from a gate.

Chemo, the man said. Takes time to get used to. And I’ll ring you.
I take a shower. Just trying to rinse the sick away.
Ready for the day.
The sun leads me out—
then gas explodes.

Liquid in my underwear.
Provocative, isn’t it?
Warmth down my leg,
staggering back up the stairs.

Another shower.
Like it’s raining.
Tears mix in—
but no one sees them but You, Lord.

Toilet bowl—heaving, vomit.
Wishing I wasn’t alone.
Wishing I wanted to live.
But I must be strong—
three months in,
and I’m still breathing.

Nose forward,
purpose steady.

Old faithful—couch again—
Boom Boom Boom
We love you
Toon Toon Toon
We care
Tears of sweat, sweat of tears
Boon a Toom—
I’ll be back as soon as I can.

I can handle it.
If it’s dark, I’ll candle it.
Lost my wallet? I’ll panhandle it.
Chemo’s my companion now—
anaphylaxis too.
Friends from the deep.

I greet them with my game face.
Pretend it’s a new hockey stick—
I’m young again.
We’re playing the Russians,
and I’m a Flyer.
We’re gonna pound them.

But I’m sixty now.
My lungs don’t want to play.
My legs betrayed me.
What happened to me?

Boom a Toon—
legends call me down.
Boon a Toom—
I go back to the ward.

I see old friends,
but they’re younger now.
My vision’s slipping.

Boom Boom Boom
We love you
Toon Toon Toon
We care
I’ll be back
Just as soon as I can.

?

I didn’t want to end up in the belly of the whale.
I’ve already been there—
addicted, lost, refusing the call.
So I started writing.

?

So don’t worry.
I’m not at the end.
I’m just creative-bugging along
with my puberty chemo oats—
awkward, uncomfortable, and oddly alive.
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