When Cancer Knocked
i stood there, saying no, but he pushed into the room like he owned it
he trailed mud throughout my house
i firmly told him that he had to leave, that he had the wrong house, the wrong woman
but he smirked and made himself at home despite my reservations
he tossed my calendars out the window
shredded my to-do lists
burned the clean laundry with a whisper: “You don’t need these anymore.”
denial
i told myself
a mistake, a glitch in the scan, a bad dream in a sterile room
i will wake up from this soon
life will go back to before
first he stole my slumber and my peace of mind
poured grief into my morning coffee like it was cream
then he stole my appetite so i was no longer a woman who licked salt from her fingers
after he stole my appetite he came for my energy—
the marrow of me, the spark behind my eyes
he made my limbs heavier than a wheelbarrow full of stones
when that wasn’t sufficient enough for him, he came for hope
not all at once, but piece by piece, brushing it like crumbs from the table
anger
i raged the women an the other end of the phone in the billing department
at the body that betrayed me
at the doctors with their cold hands and colder words
at the friends who disappeared because of my new uninvited guest
bargaining
i promised if he let me keep my hair if he gave me one more year
i would eat better, pray harder, and be a better human
depression
he began sealing off the house—curtains drawn, phone silenced, unopened mail stacking like bricks by the door
he whispered: “why bother?” when i reached for mascara, earrings, a bra
he pointed to the mirror and said, that face will soon be unrecognizable
he sat with me in the bathroom at 3 a.m., where loose stools and nausea would soon become ritual
he rearranged my bookshelves, placing pamphlets about grief and palliative care where poetry once lived
he curled up beside me at night, heavier than any man i’d ever loved, and colder too
he made me watch: friendships thinning, texts unanswered, eyes averting when i said the word cancer
he folded the world inward, until all i could see was this house, this bed, this failing body, this unwelcome guest
and yet—
between his taunts, he showed me small mercies i might’ve missed:
bloodwork that isn’t “worse”
the precise shape of a sparrow’s wing against a winter sky
the warmth of a hand i had once taken for granted
the unbearable beauty of an ordinary peach, ripe and soft in my palm
the love, quiet and stubborn, that arrives in letters from unexpected places
the hunger—not for food, but for one more season, one more story, one more dawn
he taught me one undeniable truth: the body is not a permanent thing
acceptance?
not yet.
but i am learning to listen.
A poem by Rachel Smak on grief, loss, and lessons from stage 3C rectal cancer
