Respite, Robotics, Recovery, and Return
As you read this, I will be three days on the other side of a robotic assisted laparoscopic radical prostatectomy. It hurts just even to say aloud. Taking my cue from columnist Cubby Conrad, and hopefully tapping into her courage and wisdom, I will take a hiatus from writing to devote my energy to healing. Esteemed area poets will write guest columns during my time away. I welcome their wisdom as broader dialogue in our conversation about poetry. Please enjoy their contributions.
The brief journey I’ve taken since late July, though it has had its eternal episodes, has required local and interstate doctors’ and hospitals’ visits, examinations, consultations, scans, and tests. It has heavily taxed my family and friends with worry and concern. It has placed additional stress on my colleagues’ and students’ lives. It has taken me through all the stages of potential loss. It has confronted me with the most essential questions about faith and survival.
When I had been referred to my soon-to-be urologist by my primary physician after she encountered my high PSA reading and abnormal physical exam, I found myself at a local coffee establishment sitting outside, under a simply gorgeous, cloud laden, summer day, mulling over my immediate and long-term prospects. Being a Gemini, I tend to think a lot, which is of course an understatement.
While I was sipping at my lightly-topped-off-in-milk bold roast, my photographic eye was drawn to the cross bar of a telephone pole. There sat a big crow seemingly looking my way. Being a literature teacher and writer, the symbolism did not escape me. Before I could mutter, “Just what I need—,” two smaller birds appeared out of nowhere and began pommeling their larger relative until the biggish creature rose, then plummeted and swooped, trying to avoid the onslaught. The two brothers-in-arms, or should I say wings, continued their pursuit like fighter planes fending off a bomber.
Having witnessed every detail from my quiet place, I was encouraged by the reversal of the symbolism suggested just moments before. The scenario prompted some hasty notes and, later, the following poem that I knew was about cancer. To aid in a quicker appreciation of my poem, its title is derived from combining two phrases labeling a gathering of birds, i.e., a murder of crows and a charm of finches.
Charming Murder
A dark thought crouches like a crow,
potent, folded wings poised,
the prospect of carrion
gnawing at its brain.
Silence shouts he’s not
sentinel but scout, sent
to find some weakness
for the flock to unfold
its furtive business upon.
From nowhere, a pair of finches
squawk and dive, caroming off
black sides until the inky blot
careens from its quiet perch.
The ebon menace lurches
into free fall, as tiny specks
peck at the erratic, flapping
jet kerchief shrieking west
ever away from yellow.
- Michael J Hoover
I am often surprised how quickly the muse of trauma operates (ew, good pun, for my part). You see, one mustn’t lose one’s sense of humor, eh? Recently, I had only written a couple of poems, but this one came fast and clean in both its imagery and expansiveness. Without its association with me personally, the poem speaks to the broader application of any dark thoughts we may experience and simultaneously to the last vestige we have in keeping us in the light, that being hope. Not faith nor courage nor wisdom nor love will hold on to the bitter end. Rather, hope is our utmost tether to sanity and this life. Check out Emily Dickinson’s “Hope is the thing with feathers.”
In addition to artistic and contemplative advantages, having cancer has presented opportunity, enlightenment, and even moments of joy. In addition to the education I am receiving, my empathic sensibility has grown exponentially. Every person without exception whom I have encountered has offered to me the quintessence of what is at our human core. I celebrate their level of professionalism, their courtesies and kindnesses, and their air of compassion and earnestness.
A few years ago I had helped a friend, a dyed-in-the-wool giver, to accept that it is sometimes more blesséd to receive than give. I offered that by graciously accepting others’ gifts, we provide an opportunity for someone to be able to give. We sanction their good will. We become a vehicle of goodness completing their desire to provide.
My friend, in turn, helped me to cope with how to deal with suffering. She said that rather than bemoan our condition, that we should instead embrace our suffering and accept what others offer in consolation. That our suffering yields an opportunity for others to express respect to us, plus granting them a chance to dignify our suffering. We, then, become vehicles for grace.
I have been and remain so blessed in every aspect of my life.
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