SOON IT WILL BE OVER | Melissa Cummins
I can do anything for two minutes,
As the catheter slithers into my body
And the dye creeps up and up and up
While the tiny twirling ribbons of my girlhood
Appear and then vanish on the CAT scan
And I am filled with hope
And contrast dye
I can do anything for two minutes,
As I am probed like a peculiar fossil of a woman
And the hormones course through my body
Filling my thoughts with contempt and my ovaries with fruit
There is the icy jolt of plastic and then pressure and then—
There is the shadow of four on the ultrasound screen
And I am a bush ripe for the picking
I can do anything for two minutes,
As I pull the cold syringe out of the fridge
And wring it between my hands like a Play-Doh snake
I cannot watch as he unhinges its jaws and fangs pierce my belly
So I remember the way I drained his ears after wrestling practice,
Watching deep red filling boil over the pan,
Burning my reflection as it scalds
I can do anything for two minutes,
As my knees reach as far toward the overcast sky
And the grey walls as they can, because I ate the wafer cookie
Grew up and up and up, until my limbs molded into the mortar and
Tried their best to burst through and escape
“13.5 million; +4 motility,” they say, rogue bullet piercing through me.
Iterations of the future marching out of the Trojan Horse
I can do anything for two minutes
As I wish I could be small, small enough to shake their hands
And meet the people they might have become
Small enough to fit beneath all the cabinets filled with equipment,
Beneath the small crack under the wooden door, and run
After the version of me who is “Pregnant Until Proven Otherwise”
As she tries to tear herself away
I can do anything for two minutes,
Count the flashing lines –onetwothreefourfive– over and over like
Dashed roads, flicks of light switches, cracks in old sidewalks
Lined up like a row of strong, established trees,
Strong like the grip I want to have on my insides
Hold onto this one, hold onto them tight.
But they were already gone.
I can do anything for two minutes,
And there will come a day
When I will gather the ripe berries
And bake a cake to celebrate
With my knees to the sky and my chin to my chest
And a new part of me will tear away
And a new part of me will stay.
Melissa Cummins is a third-year medical student at the West Virginia School of Osteopathic Medicine. Her work reflects upon the values of clinicians, defining moments in patient care and her career, and her personal experiences with infertility and loss. Cummins seeks to bridge the gap between patients and providers, and to use the written word as a means of integrating the beauties of science and art. In so doing, she hopes to use the power of narrative medicine to present a raw, unfiltered reflection on the highs and lows of the practice of medicine as well as the pursuit of wellness.