Defiance

[Obi Adisa Asad]

Defiance

My vision fades . . .

. . . blurs and clouds

transport me to a time

when I rocked

microphones for

live crowds, sometimes

twice in one night,

collecting accolades

as if they were shimmering

dowries cascading

across a moonlit ocean

and gently landing at

my feet.

Now, pain in my hand

from an IV punctured

vein dilates as cold saline

courses its way up my

left arm, numbing it.

Smells of rubbing alcohol

and peroxide burn my nose.

Light-headed from the fumes,

I float just above the bed,

look down, and see myself

trapped in a nightmare

out-of-body experience.

I lose my breath just standing

up. I want to write, but the

pen and pad are too heavy.

I struggle to keep the low

bacteria, overcooked food

I eat from racing up my

esophagus and spilling out

across my chest.

Eyelids succumb to fatigue

and just as I fall asleep, in

walks yet another nurse

carrying the usual tools–a

syringe, bandage, and sterilized

gauze. Awaking me from a

half-sleep, half-conscious

limbo.

I curse her as she leaves me

searingly awake, estranged

from a decent night’s rest,

the same way happiness

and health elude me.

Sounds of the EKG beep

like sonar in tune with

my pulse, each beep

resounds in my head. . .

Louder!

Louder!

Louder!

Each beep, a rolling thunder

clap across a purple horizon.

The staccato rhythm pings

like rain against a window

pane. Rattling my eardrums,

bursting membranes in my

nose causing blood to rush

down my lips like sap down

tree bark, tasting my own

bitterness.

Awaiting tides of chemotherapy

to wash over me, drag me away

in its undercurrent and bury me

underneath the red seas.

I lie in a sweat drenched

hospital bed, staring at four

radiant white walls, as the sun’s

rays bleed into my room and

blind me. Tossing and turning,

spitting out hair follicles from

my mouth, wiping them from

my face and pillow.

Staring into my mother’s eyes

and seeing my own reflection.

My frail face, sunken in and

sickly. She unsuccessfully tries

to hold back tears, expressing

her desires to switch places with

me. Angry at the plight of her

baby and repeatedly excusing

herself from the room because

she can’t calm down. Blaming

herself because she can’t protect

me. Angry because her son is

carrying a rotting, necrotic tumor,

hanging from his right groin.

My sister opens my bedroom

door only to be confronted with

the painful reminder that her brother

is fighting for his life instead of

sleeping soundly in his room

next to her's. She will not hear

my voice in the morning,

hear my jokes that only she gets,

or bang on my door asking me to

turn the music down.

Life continues to move, breathe,

and thrive without me. I look out

the window at the busy hospital

parking lot, doctors and patients–

going home. And I’m here! Here!

Lying in this bed, this contraption!

Awaiting chemo, blood transfusions,

and more food to vomit like a

death row inmate awaits execution.

I remember a friend of mine asking

me . . . when will I be normal again.

I won’t.

I may never be normal again. . .

I may never be normal again.

I may always carry the toxicity of

chemotherapy within me.

Leaving me sterile, so I can give

my queen no children to carry on

my legacy. The Asad bloodline

ends with me . . .

The Asad bloodline ends with me.

I will never be normal again.

But I will live!

I will live!

I will live, abnormalities and all.

If I have to regurgitate gastric

juices from my stomach onto

my food, liquefying it, then

swallow it whole as my

only means of sustenance–then so be it.

If I have to drink the chemo

rather than have it slither its way

up my IV, through my arm,

into my veins, and straight

to my heart only to be pumped

and circulated throughout my

bloodstream, distributing this

poison to every cell in my

body, healthy and cancerous alike–then so be it!

I will not yield!

I will not die!

I will not die!

I will not die!

I will not perish.

I will not submit.

I will not give up.

I will not go quietly into that

good night!

I may never be normal again–

but I will live.

I will live with my abnormalities!

I will embrace them.

I will embrace them like a mother

embraces her child after years

of separation. I will love

my abnormalities.

I will love my abnormalities

for they represent me!

They represent my resiliency!

My unwillingness to bow down

to he who is not God!

Yes, I will love my abnormalities

and God help me, I will live.

For an audio listening of this poem, please click this link

[Obi Adisa Asad]

Thanks Q. Means a lot.

[Q]

every single time man,

you know...

it's still hard to read for me, but I love it just the same.

[Obi Adisa Asad]

Thanks. I appreciate the feedback.

[Megan]

WOW - That is very powerful. I shed some tears as a mother on that. Ml, Megan