My last chemo infusion was on April 21. Or so they say. I was handed a banner that claimed it was my final round—kind of like a graduation certificate, but without balloons … just that continuing IV drip. Honestly, only the Lord knows what comes next. The doctors have theories, of course, but let’s face it—they’re paid to sound confident, not to be clairvoyant.
The prostate cancer? Still lounging in the background, not bothering anyone. The stomach, however, is still auditioning for the spotlight. We’ll wait several weeks before we know if it gets a full season or just a guest appearance. Last week’s PET scan looked promising in one important way. Apparently, my brain is still firing its neurons in rapid succession. I asked the doctor if he could see signs that my poetry-writing skills had improved. He said no. I’m not sure he looked very hard. Or maybe he’s just not a fan of rhymes.
The bloodwork came back looking good. The scans were decent for someone of my vintage—except for a few stomach spots that are still playing “guess who?” We won’t know if they’re cancerous encore performers until the gastroenterologist goes on a guided tour next month. Only then will we know if April 21 was truly the final chemo curtain call or just intermission.
Has any of this slowed me down? Not even a little. In fact, I seem to be doing more now than ever before. Either chemo supercharged my productivity, or I’m experiencing divine time-stretching. Editing and writing still take time, though. You’d think sharper skills would let me kick back and sip lemonade. Nope. They’ve just added a dozen more things to my to-do list.
That’s why I pray. A lot. I’ve realized I might be able to do anything, but I definitely can’t do everything. That’s where I need God—front and center, like a GPS that actually knows where I’m going.
Okay, let’s put all this in poetic form.
Curtain Call
By Frank Ball
The room was so quiet, the lights really bright.
The nurse just smiled and said, “You’re all right.”
A banner was waving, no balloons on the wall.
They said it was time for my Chemo Curtain Call.
I blinked and nodded and didn’t want to cheer.
Could this be the end? Was the finish line near?
We’d laughed and had fun, the moments so sweet.
This stage was a thrill. I didn’t want to retreat.
The prostate’s behaving—it’s being polite.
But the stomach? That rascal still puts up a fight.
“There’s spots,” said the scan, “just one or two there.”
Are they nothing? Or something? Or just stomach flair?
We won’t know for a month—maybe longer, it’s true,
Till they send down a scope for a much clearer view.
The brain scan looked normal. Now that’s quite a feat.
I said, “Can you see where my rhymes are complete?”
The doctor laughed and said, “Not a trace of a rhyme.”
Well, maybe my verses just need more time.
So what have I learned on this winding, wild ride?
That strength isn’t muscles. It comes from inside.
I feel more alive than I did in the past.
And somehow, I’m working three times as fast.
You’d think I’d sit down. Take a nap. Maybe rest.
But my list of ideas just won’t let me rest.
So I pray, and I listen, and I pause when I should.
Not all that I can do … is all that I should.
For God knows the plan, and he sees it all—
Whether this is the end … or just Act Two’s Curtain Call.