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Ghost chemo

Posted: February 26, 2015 in Anthony Wilson
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A haunting poem from Anthony Wilson about cancer.

Anthony Wilson

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It’s hard to describe.

One day your are fine, not quite the same (age will do this to you), then bam, something like a steamroller has massaged your body during the night, making sure it reversed out of the bedroom the way it came.

Tiny areas of your body, previously unknown to you, now throb with soreness.

Imagine the handle of a screwdriver. Something is screwing its handle into your hipbone. Just as the pain eases, or you get used to it (it’s hard to know the difference), the prodding begins in the side of your opposite buttock. This also eases, just at the point that your knees become jelly. And your neck. Who thought holding up a head could be so much work!

Now imagine the blades of a pair of nail scissors. Somehow they have found their way inside your kidneys. It’s hard to tell if they are…

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A very interesting blog from Anthony Wilson about writing and illness.

Anthony Wilson

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Reading Arthur W. Frank’s astonishing At the Will of the Body  recently has given me pause to reflect on the relationship between illness and writing. One of the chief delights of reading Frank’s account of his heart attack and cancer is his beautifully modulated prose style. As I only half-joked, it seems to be written entirely in quotes, each page both measured and solid as a dresser made of teak.

Not having been at my best of late -rest assured: this is not a coded reference to relapsing- it occurred to me that Frank’s book achieves the mastery it does after the event as it were. The past tense is a wonderful thing. It brought to mind another joke, of the friend who told me he read my memoir of cancer Love for Now in double-quick time, to see if I lived.

They are different beasts. Love for Now

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