I am not prepared by Bridget Robertson

I am not prepared.
Who the hell is?
How slow and prolonged can this cancer get?
Everything is vague. All the rules I research have exceptions.
Doctors, good ones, keep reminding me I fall into the exceptions,
of a cancer, that is an exception.
I just don't believe I am that unique
I don't fall under any heading called "special"!

Hell I can't even

Get the words right.

I'm not spinning
No. I am in slow motion and the world is in real time.
Somewhere I lost the rhythm of living.

Broken and feeling cut to the bone,
Have I used up my chances?

Unfinished business haunts me.
I never thought I had all the time in the world.
Surely, I would be given enough time to complete what I once
thought was in women's grasp.
At least in our sight.
Certain it would be well in
women's lives who followed.
What kind of foolishness was that?

How did I confuse stagnation with being done?

I remember when I felt the twist in my gut.
A whisper in my ear...
"Things are not right."
Brushed the voice away like it was a common knat.
I soothed that pain with "How bad could it get? ".

Today... it seems pretty bad.
Tides are ebbing.
Taking with them sands of hard won victories
that I now know were mere crumbs.

Now each cancer cell feels like a reminder of
every moment I missed pushing forward.
What a wasteland my body now holds.
I cry for my sisters.
I cry for all daughters
Begging for just enough time
Pleading for just enough energy
To set things right.
Wondering......
Will it matter if I am granted these gifts?

-Bridget Robertson

Painting by Elisabeth Slettnes