Constant beeps awaken
me from the haze of
morphine and anesthesia.
Blurry vision restricts
my distinction between loved ones
and doctors.
Sounds beyond my vital signs finally
Reach my cold ears.
Can I move my hands?
Yes.
Can I feel the blanket on my toes?
Yes.
Disappointment reaps through
my fragile frame.
How many hours did I
lay on a table while doctors
attempted to remove my
Diseased tissue from the
recesses of my skull?
For if they were successful,
I’d be brain dead or
Just Dead.
Large cold hands
overlap my petite digits.
Soft sobs escape
someone who must be my mother.
From the corner of the
room, a calm voice says,
“congratulations sweetheart,
We got it all”