Tag / poetry

by Jacqueline Chartier

Temporary and Permanent

One of the most heartbreaking lessons that I’ve acquired so far from my cancer journey has been that cancer can result in abandonment. Like the majority of cancer survivors, I’ve experienced the inevitable loss of some of my long-time friends and acquaintances.

I’ve gradually been able to accept that these people where not meant to support me or to be with me and that perhaps they lacked the strength or the spirit to remain as I confront the many challenges of ovarian cancer. Indeed, some relationships can’t weather a storm and are only temporary, while others are able to withstand numerous hardships and the test of time. 

In this post I’d like to share a poem that illuminates this theme for me in a manner that I feel other cancer survivors might also strongly relate to. The poem is by Nikita Gill, the well-known British-Indian poet, playwright, and illustrator.

Temporary and Permanent

Most people in your life
were only meant 
for dreams, 
and summer laughter.

They stay till the wind changes, 
the tides turn, 
or disappear 
with the first snow.

And then there are some 
that were forged
to weather blizzards 
and pain with you.

They were cast in iron, 
set in gold 
and never ever leave you 
to face anything alone.

Know who these people are.
And love them the way they deserve.
Not everyone in your life is temporary.
A few are as permanent as love is old.

As for myself, I’ve been living in the shadow of cancer for over a decade, sometimes I’ve felt alone and other times I’ve felt the support of others. In hindsight I think it’s important that we show gratitude for the people in our lives who are permanent, the ones who are willing to stay with us even throughout the most unbearable parts of our journey. We should acknowledge that these individuals are rare and special, or as the author so appropriately describes them cast in iron, set in gold.

by Jacqueline Chartier

“The Thing Is” When You Have Cancer

The Thing Is

to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.

Ellen Bass

Poetry for me is often healing and cathartic. I recently encountered The Thing Is when it appeared in one of my social media feeds. The American poet Ellen Bass wrote it when she was in deep grief and it certainly resonated with me. When I researched the author, I learned that Bass has published nine poetry collections, the most recent of which is Indigo (Copper Canyon Press, 2020). In addition to her poetry, she has written several works of nonfiction, including The Courage to Heal: A Guide for Women Survivors of Child Sexual Abuse.

After reading The Thing Is, I felt as though the words had been intended for people like cancer survivors and their families. For those who haven’t actually lost something they cherish or someone dear it’s almost impossible to appreciate the poem or understand its meaning. However, for those of us who have felt the darkness of grief or had to abandon the lives we knew before cancer, we understand the poem completely. We get it. We not only get it, we’ve lived it.

As an ovarian cancer survivor, my life is forever altered, and it will be until the day I die. I’ve suffered, acquired a much deeper awareness of grief and pain, but I manage to still love life. Even in the darkest moments, there are still things to love; the majestic mountains on Calgary’s horizon, the green grass, the brilliant orange poppies that bloom in my backyard, my cat rubbing up against my leg while gently purring. Every season, every day, holds beauty waiting to be discovered.  I know. my family, friends and health care team would all want me to learn to love life fully again. It’s challenging, often still a work in progress, but I continue to persevere.