The Day My Life Went Bizacko

The day my life went bizacko, I had me a brush with “big C” “No biggie; just radiation,” they said, “after lumpectomy.” “No, wait,” said the surgeon,“Your cancer’s genetic! Let’s have you do chemo too.” A doctor friend wiser said that would be a ludicrous thing to do. Chemo just for prevention? How wackadoodle is that? Despite the fact I’m “genetic,” I turned down their chemo flat. Did radiation and thought I was done till my bones were then given a scan. “Keep your bones strong. You must take our drug,” said my doofus oncologist man. Prolia shots every six months. Four times I did that in all. Come to find out – folks going OFF it are breaking their bones when they fall! I went off it anyway. Rare side effects were making me feel insane. Two years since then and still I have got Prolia on my brain. My mouth is bizarre -half-numb and plain dumb like my outer lips aren’t even there! Like plastic or wool my mouth feels inside, so an old worn-out mouthguard I wear. The mouthguard’s my comfort, but it’s gotten yellow and I look strange when I smile. Good thing for me to NOT be in public but stuck in my house for this while. New doctors I visit will not diagnose me. One of them thinks I am whacko. Doctors look after each OTHER while I keep living a life bizacko! April 1, 2020 239 words for Caren Krutsinger's The Day My Life Went Whacko Poetry Contest