By MARIANNE WOOD

Traditionally, a sabbatical for travel and study lasts about a year. I recently took leave from Spirit of Abilene and many other things to go on one. I sent Loretta Fulton “Presents of Presence” almost a year ago. I have been traveling and learning a lot since then.

From January 20 – August 15, 2023, I spent 105 days en route to or from, or actually in, Philadelphia, helping “our little Philly family” navigate the deep waters of cancer. Our vivacious daughter, Laurie: wife, mother of two tiny persons, and professor of history, succumbed to the disease on June 4. Falling into every bad statistical crevice that breast cancer might inflict, she ferociously fought until doctors told her they had nothing left to help her. 

I will share a few details and several insights from my experiences in upcoming pieces. But for now, I offer a glimpse into the challenges and blessings via a poem I wrote after undergoing an MRI. As you may know, but I hope you don’t, most cancer patients endure these and other scans often. The machine makes a series of sounds that are kind of like a song. A loud, clangy, buzzy song.

Not What I Expected 

Dressed in blue scrubs, 
I began to see 
This morning’s MRI
Would be new to me.

I imagined one arm out 
To scan my wrist
Discover the reason
For this new lesion.

But no.

Now fully aligned
On the narrow bed,
My face down on a pillow
One arm akimbo
Pinched nerve shouting: 
Let me go, go, go!

So still as could be
I was slid in the tube
Then tears welled 
And fell
As I felt its approach. 

And yes.

Caught in the grip
Of this uncomfortable space
My mental state
Collapsed— 
Aware of my fate. 

Black Bear came calling
With pictures of her:
She’d had so many of these 
She could sing you the tune!

But Lamb came at last
And the ordeal passed.
So I asked my techs’s name
To thank him some way.

“Angel,” he’s blessed.
And Black Bear, the beast– 
We three parted ways
And I took a deep breath. 

Marianne Wood works as an editorial assistant and researcher for Bill Wright