Stage 3
Manageable for a time, they say, with diet and medication.
First, they take away salt. Avoid pre-packaged anything.
Labels can be deceiving, so double- and triple-check.
Even low-sodium is too much sodium.
We are still so bewildered by the diagnosis,
we barely stop to think about how strange it is,
that such an essential thing could spell harm for you.
Then, they take away potassium, and there goes
the salt substitute. We say goodbye to corn, tomatoes,
cucumbers, broccoli, leafy greens, mushrooms,
bananas, oranges, chocolate, so many things.
We soak potatoes for at least an hour.
There are lots of tomatillos, which we learn
are not in the nightshade family, and therefore safe,
lots of pesto and salsa verde, lots of
popcorn balls and Rice Krispies Treats.
Marshmallows are the only sweet you can have.
(It will be many years before we can stand them again.)
For the first time, you crack a cookbook.
On good days, you start experimenting.
Then comes the steroid-induced diabetes,
the Cushing’s Syndrome, your head so enlarged,
you frighten your nephews when they come to visit.
You can no longer manage the stairs.
Your body hair falls out. You shake.
Even your feet swell so you can only wear slippers.
At Christmas dinner, you sit at the table with us,
but do not eat. You aren’t really here.
Stage 4
If you ever hit Stage 4,
it must’ve only been a pitstop,
a border-crossing into some
unimaginable territory
where the rest of us can’t follow.
Stage 5
End stage.
Months pass in a blur
of hospital beds and transfusions,
needles and tubes, and pills upon pills.
The weight melts off as the nausea overtakes you.
Now, facing the long haul of the transplant list,
we have time to consider these essentials.
Nothing could have prepared me for the horror
of watching someone who is unable to eat.
I research all the tips for cancer patients:
setting the table with flowers and linens,
cooking your favorite foods, popsicles, drugs.
You were a vegetarian in the time before, and now,
they expect you to take at least nine ounces
of animal protein a day. So I buy shakes.
We make big batches of egg salad.
(A trick bulimics know:
if it’s going to come back up anyway
best stick to soft things.)
On the rare occasion that you have a craving,
I run out and get it for you.
If you eat half, I consider it a victory.
Marijuana is still illegal, but someone
brings us a joint. At last, you eat.
I don’t care about the law.
You eat.
Transplant
With your new abundance
of time, you watch cooking videos.
You start with bread.
Before I know it, you
are turning out beautiful loaves.
In three years, we find
there’s nothing you can’t do, no dish
you can’t master: baguettes,
pillowy croissants, arepas,
chocolate babka, Three Kings bread,
homemade pizzas and pasta, sushi,
dumplings, and biscuits the way
your grandma made them,
roasted pork belly and braised short ribs.
For Valentine’s Day, you surprise me
with a filet and lobster tail.For every holiday, we happily gift you
kitchen gadgets, welcoming you back
to a world of appetite. Every artist knows
that sometimes, you have to die
in order to create, and you have died
several times over. But now, my love,
you live, and not just on bread alone.
You live.
Lauren Scharhag is the author of fourteen books, including Requiem for a Robot Dog (Cajun Mutt Press) and Languages, First and Last (Cyberwit Press). Her work has appeared in over 150 literary venues around the world. Recent honors include the Seamus Burns Creative Writing Prize, three Best of the Net nominations, and acceptance into the 2021 Antarctic Poetry Exhibition. She lives in Kansas City, MO. To learn more about her work, visit: www.laurenscharhag.blogspot.com
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