We gather, this dysfunctional family
related by trauma once removed, in this
pretend living 
room, each on our own maroon, beige, or
taupe pleather island,  and
pretend we are living 
our new normal, without an ever-present shadow
darkening our minds cast by a
mass, a lymph node, a lesion, a spiked or
bottomed out blood level, or some other
undropped shoe. 

A painted horse stands in front of the bank of windows,
covered in folk art quilt square patterns, tree limbs, and
green like the woods my 
doctor says I should be well out of by
now, and I try my best to believe her. 

I smell the hospital cleaner, block out ads for cancer drugs playing on a loop on the monitor above my head, try not to stare as the older gentleman speaks too loudly to his daughter, smile at a woman with a scarf on her bald head, and another with new regrowth, warmly, but not enough to invite conversation. I must stay focused, alert, in case an opportunity arises to delude myself that I have
control over my biannual  bloodwork results. 

My doctor is calm and confident,
letting soothing words of affirmation soak into my
skin as she palpates my neck and armpits.
I exhale, fight back tears of relief,
I don’t want to stay this afraid eight years
out. I was not a hypochondriac in the
before-times, but worry requires upkeep. 

On my way out I see a parent I know
coming in, her hair long since grown back,
cheeks flushed and eyes healthy, but staying
focused forward. I smile and say hi but do not
stop to ask about her kids I taught. She is
focused and vigilant, as all of us here must be.