Breast Cancer Poetry

The dawning of a brand new day as out of bed I climb.
I’ve found since I got breast cancer, I’m pretty short of time.

I’d love to accept invites, but my friends don’t have a clue I’m just so bloody busy with the things I have to do.

First task I’m in the kitchen with my “new best friend” the juicer, I can feel myself get better (I can feel my bowels get looser).

All organic beets and oranges, five kilograms a day. Without a frown I slurp it down and then I’m on my way.

Monday is lymphatic drainage, with a deep massage to follow, then I touch base with my naturopath for hints on what to swallow.

On Tuesdays I have counselling then full three hours of Reiki. A phone in with some ladies leaves my schedule somewhat shaky.

I don’t eat chook or dairy, anything that had a “mum”, But once a week a man comes round, sticks hoses up my bum.

I meditate three hours a day in candle lit seclusion, It’s not so hard to find the time, that’s just a false elusion.

Twice monthly I’m rebirthing, the feeling’s so unreal. My mum (who doesn’t understand) says her stitches never heal.

You’ll find me on a Friday with a group so dear and kind, And we tweeze out old forgotten hurts round campfires in our mind.

I don’t drink tea or coffee, alcohol never a drop. I’ll list the things I eat and drink. Fruit, vegetables full stop.

It’s a very hectic schedule and for wellness that’s the fee. But if you smell burning martyr, well OK, I guess it’s me.

Deep in my dreams I lunch with friends and time does not construe. I order steak and chips and gin and 20 Winfield blue.

- Lyn, Australia

beauty tip, my sister


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