1978. Ignoring strep throat for nearly a year
I was diagnosed with gangrene in my tonsils.
Admitted to Saint Cabrini Hospital,
I gave myself over to the surgical care of a doctor
who wore an imperial mustache
and a ducktail beard,
who had hooked me up to a therapeutic inhaler
every office visit for no reason I can think of
and so far, had touched me inappropriately twice.
I submitted to the designs of caring nurses
and prayer from the Missionary Sisters
of the Sacred Heart of Jesus,
I’d gone under anesthesia as a high soprano
and rose as a tenor. My voice
unrecognizable to the few friends I telephoned.
My friend, Colin visited, and I think he glimpsed my butt
peeping out the back of my gown, blankets
kicked off. I was in too much pain to care.
For a solid month I let ice shards melt
down my throat
until I could handle the jars of baby food.
I swore I’d henceforth pay more attention to my health,
but I didn’t. Not finding out I was pregnant
until the fifth month. Stubbed toes infected.
Depression. Fatigue. Something other than myself
holding my attention.
