A couple of dear folks will worry, so I should add a disclaimer with this one. I wrote the original version of this poem when a loved one was first diagnosed with cancer. That was years ago. He’s fine now. All checkups continue to be good.
Not everyone is so fortunate, and we are no better than they are. I only share these stories because I am thankful. Remembering is the least I can do to express my gratitude.
.
.
X-Ray
Julie Buffaloe-Yoder
It is the story of your life,
pinned on a screen, your insides
lit up, discussed in hushed tones
by a man who is late for a meeting.
.
He sees deficiency, fissures, cells.
You see your mother’s red hands,
a river sliding past summer cabins,
mildewed faces on window screens,
.
shafts of sunlight through cracks
on the day your daughter was born,
graduation caps, unpaid bills, a man
drinking cold tea in an unlit room.
.
This is not the denouement
you had written for yourself
at a creaky midnight desk
while counting the seconds
between rumbles of thunder.
.
It is a lie too soon, a white flash,
a pumping bloodroot,
a story with no resolution.
A black spot on a silent film.
.
The doctor clears his throat,
looks at the clock above the door
and asks if you have
any questions.
Oh Julie.
Somehow your disclaimer does not matter to me, because the poem is timelessly everything and everytime and everyone. How did you fit so much life in those short stanzas in the middle? It’s all there between the “rumbles of thunder.” It’s breathtaking. And juxtaposed with the doctor who is running late, it is truly heartbreaking. It reminds me again why I love Auden’s “Funeral Blues” — because we want to stop all the clocks, nothing can come to any good, when our loved one dies. And of course that is the prospect considered in your vibrating poem.
Your skill is great. I admire your simplicity more than I can say.
And you know what I especially love (I do love how you use language)? That word denouement followed shortly by creaky.
Beautifully crafted.
Wow…thank you, Ruth! I sure appreciate all those kind words. I’m especially happy that you liked the “denouement” stanza. The initial X-Ray was such a huge question mark and a frightening prospect. In some ways, it was scarier than the more involved procedures, because of the uncertainty. It was a moment I’ll never forget.
Thanks again, Ruth. I appreciate your wonderful support. You have really made my day!
Yes, I would have worried. Thanks for the disclaimer. This made me feel the fear. I can’t say that I understand poetry in general, but I understand and relate to yours, which is why I love it and you.
Awwww! Thanks, my buddy. It makes me feel good to know that. I love you, too:)
“A black spot on a silent film.”
This is a beautiful, terrible poem. I loved every word, impression of it. (Julie, you are a marvel.)
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Hi, Terresa! Thank you very much! -Julie
” Yeah doc…I got a question. What’s your fucking hurry I am the one you just said had cancer?”
I despise 99% of doctors.
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Hi, WM. The good news is that we ended up with the most AWESOME oncologist ever! She encouraged us to question and tried to advise us with her expertise, but she also let the patient make the final decisions. It was hell, but I’ll have to say that she was an amazing doctor who earned every penny that she made.
We met some other crappy doctors along the way (the worst was a surgeon who dismissed our concerns about redness around an incision, and my loved one ended up in the hospital with a deadly staph infection for a month). I quickly learned how to speak up, and even raise hell, with some of them.
There were other good ones, but our oncologist rocked! I will love that woman forever. Come to think of it, I should write a poem about her! Thanks for prompting that thought, WM. Have a good one. -Julie
Like, the doctor, I find myself clearing my throat … ((ehem)) …
… but I can’t find anything to say…
A tremendous poem, Julie. Harrowing. Like Ruth, I think I most admire its seeming simplicity, with so much feeling, irony and storytelling condensed into a few words. The ending is perfect — how such a mundane, routine gesture can carry such a wallop.
Were it not for the disclaimer, I would be in a panic right now … even with the disclaimer … ((ehem))
Hi, Lorenzo! Thank you very much. It’s always great to see you. It’s odd how a small gesture can carry so much meaning, isn’t it? In some cases, clearing the throat may signify a speaker who is getting ready to say more. In this case, it was a final thought, as if the doctor were clearing the patient from his throat like phlegm. Thank you for pointing that out!
Relying on a doctor who is busy with health care as well as a personal life to be accurate in assessments. Trying to take it all in when answers are forthcoming. Deciding if it is worth it. Or not. You write in such a way that your readers are exposed to various life situations and we all relate to them in your posts whether we have experienced them in real life or not. You draw us in and make us feel. Such a good writer to be able to do that.
Hi, Technobabe. Thank you very much. I always appreciate your kind words and support. I hope your week is going well, and I look forward to seeing what you’re up to.
julie gal, not much in life brings tears to a crusty old mans eyes not even bambi. bt dang if u cant. every time. the throat clearing is immediate bt the image that really gets me is the clock. the dr. thinks in terms of how busy he is. narrator thinks of how much time left in life. damn powerhouse of a poem.
Dan, I wouldn’t call you crusty OR old. I call you awesome. Thank you for being so good to me. And I’m glad you’re back early this week! Shoot me some funny jokes
Well, I’m totally floored again, so intimidated by the raw beauty of your poetry that I can hardly find words to express myself. Let me begin by leaning on my friends, Ruth and Lorenzo, whose comments reflect everything I felt when reading this poem. Your work is just stunningly good, Julie. It seizes me by the throat and doesn’t let go. Like all great art, it calls upon me to PAY ATTENTION, and I have never failed to respond to its clarion call.
Hi, George. How good it is to log on this morning and find you here. I hope this week is treating you well. I sure do appreciate your support. I was sort of down in the dumps this morning about another project I’m trying to complete (eeesh…life), but your kind comment was like a good shot in the arm. Thank you for that boost! And, as always, thank you for reading.
Hi Julie,
The first time I read this poem, it got to me, the structure of it and the meaning. The second time, I read it aloud, and it brought me to that place where the tears well up. There is power and precision in every word and image. Your ability to characterize, and to place the reader in that room with you, your honesty, and your ability to demonstrate with understatement in so few words, giving the reader room to feel the emotion, rather than read about it, is the work of a master poet and a sensitive, intelligent woman. Thank you for your poems.
Hello, Annie. I was just thinking about you and hoping that you’re having a good week. I don’t mean to sound like a broken record with my responses here today, but I am so thankful for your kind words and support. It means a lot to me. Whenever I start grumbling about the internet, I always have to stop and correct myself. I’m glad I have the internet, because it has allowed me to connect with some awesome people like you. Thank you for your kind words and friendship!
The power of your words brings me to tears, Julie! I am so glad your loved one came through okay.
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Hi, Rachel! Thank you very much! Having him…and my daughter…are the best presents in the world. Sometimes when I’m feeling low about my other “bad luck,” I have to stop myself and remember how lucky I really am. It’s so good to see you, Rachel. Have a beautiful weekend! -Julie
I’ve just arrived via Lorenzo’s blog and read this poem. Then I scrolled down and found some more of your poems. Julie, I think they are quite wonderful, and moving in their ‘apparent’ simplicity. You have such a gift. I will be back to read more!
Hello, solitary walker. I love your name! Lorenzo is awesome, and I’m very glad you found me there. It’s nice to meet you. I will also visit you, as I enjoy meeting new people. I’m a little behind this week, but I should be heading around to see everyone today. Thank you very much for the kind words…and welcome!
Beautiful. You so get the juxtaposition of the two worlds: medical and personal.
Thank you, Brig! I hope you’re having a great weekend.
All of the above have said it. Wow, this is a moving poem. You are a talented poet.
Hi, Glenda! Thank you very much. It’s so good to see you.
You certainly struck a nerve with this one! You took me back to that examining table where I was told I might have 6 months to live. My initial reaction–silence–followed by every possible image of my childhood. Luckily, fourteen years have passed and I’m still here. This is a sadly beautiful poem because it brought back a frightening moment that I’ll never forget. Have I told you how wonderful your poems are? I’ll say it again: I don’t read much poetry, but I look forward to each poem you post.
Hi, JR. Wow! What a frightening experience. You have something in common with my loved one, because it has been thirteen years for us. Yes, that first moment of silence…and then life flashes.
And then to be told that you may only have six months is terrifying! We were lucky in that we were never given a time limit. We were told he was in the final stages, but our oncologist was really cool about how she presented the information. It gave us hope that helped him fight it.
I’m so glad you made it, because your survival gave me the opportunity to meet you and read your work. That’s selfish of me, I know. But I am glad that you are in the world. Thank you very much for the kind words and for sharing your story.