Med

Sundays – Scribe – Medium

Sundays were always a blessing,

though mixed.

A day of rest, but the weight of a new week hovered,

an anvil waiting to drop.

Now, the weight rises from

below, and drags me

down,

floundering,

gasping for breath.

Now, on Sundays, I present myself to

a bringer of hope,

a harbinger of doom.

I wake early, unable to eat, to drink until after

the blood,

vials upon vials,

is drawn from my bruised flesh.

Then, a reprieve. A cup of coffee, a breakfast treat.

Time to myself, a rare gift.

Time, when no one is wanting, asking, needing.

Time, when no one is arguing, yelling, crying.

Time, I would enjoy,

if I could breathe.

But the coffee mingles with pools of acid in my belly, and the food sinks like

lead.

I wonder, I worry, what will the results be?

Will the numbers tell a story my body doesn’t seem to know?

Or will they offer at least a pale reflection of the truth of my days?

The Truth:

silent tears no one sees

as the fire surges,

the ache envelops,

the pain overwhelms.

I kneed and pull and clench, yet my hands still

seize,

my knees

stiffen,

my ankles

tremble.

even in rest, my skin

crawls,

burns,

freezes.

Will the numbers tell the Truth?

The Doctor will see you now.

Will she? See?

She knows the numbers, but her face reveals

nothing.

How have you been?

(What can I say? Will the numbers make a liar out of me?)

Not great.

She presses and prods and I wince,

once.

Does it hurt?

A bit.

You sure aren’t a complainer.

(Should I be?)

Well, your numbers look

(Perhaps I should)

good.

Oh.

(But it hurts)

You know it can take time

Yes.

for the medicine to work,

Yes.

so I think we should stay the course.

Okay.

Any questions?

(Why do the numbers lie?)

No, I don’t think so.

(Is this what my life will be now?)

Thank you, Doctor.

But, my voice shakes, my eyes swim.

Are you alright?

(No.)

Yes, it’s just

Yes?

Hard.

Yes, I know.

(You don’t.)

But, I’ll see you next month,

Yes.

and hopefully you’ll be feeling better by then.

Yes.

And, so I wait

another month of Sundays

for change,

for better things,

until a Sunday when the numbers won’t lie

and neither will I.


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