Mr Jones (Poem 17)

You drew cartoon boobs when we first met,
You marked me up with Sharpie,
You were to the point and all set,
I joked about stories for a dinner party
,

Nipple callipers and sample silicon hidden in your case,
Rolling back and forth between the private and NHS side,
Driven by clinical need, patient outcomes and pace,
Your work ethic and commitment cannot be denied.

I wish you’d had a magic wand not a scalpel,
The scans seemed certain, but they lied,
Meticulous precision could not conquer the way these cancer cells rule,
We’re still keeping on; it’s one hell of a ride.

Months later I’m back, punch biopsy of my scar inside,
Pathology confirmed what I always knew,
I didn’t need the scientific view,
No time for more surgery, more systematic treatment; more time to bide.

Started June 2019 when I found a tiny lump the size of a pin head in my mastectomy scar.  I was reflecting on surgery. 

People thought I was paranoid.  They said It was scar tissue.  I know my own body. 

Finished in October 2019 when I returned to my original surgeon for his opinion; which confirmed mine. 

Honour and Accept (Poem 13)

Aching from deep within. My outer shell maimed,
Cancer popping up here and there, treatment effects becoming evident inside,
Emotional and physiological damage emerging as short term side effects subside,
Honouring my body’s journey rather than the future cancer has claimed.


Internal chemical warfare, breast amputation and nuclear burning,
Uncovering bad news and medical options is a skill I’m learning,
Despite the collateral damage, my body’s response is worth respecting,
But in order to move forward my mind needs to be accepting.

17th August 2019