Pamela Sinicrope
Lines for an Oncologist
Breakfast is a time for accounting—
Particulars of study design, biomarkers, chemo.
The phone buzzes and a glass of water arrives
with a bowl of oatmeal. Wake up!
You come and go in darkness.
A line of cars braced by red lights
pulls closer to silent garages. A ruffling
of papers on the console…. a photo ID
lifts the arm as cold pushes through
before sunrise. This is The Clinic.
One by one, cars traverse a narrow line,
fluorescent lights lead to a parking spot.
Thousands of physicians, a battalion in blue,
close coats, walk to elevators, offices.
This work, their single-minded devotion,
everything happens in this space connected
by warm tunnels, open hearts,
hope. A welcome smile with grey hair
never disappoints the lost
at every curve, every door, every elevator.
Your life spent studying, your tenacity—to
solve
the nearly inscrutable. You delayed, withheld,
lost sleep to acquire the art of treating the
sick,
of helping the dying settle
their terms for peace and dignity.
You are a furnace in this place of perpetual winter.
Dr. Thomas Dooley wrote: Your dedication
will not be a sacrifice. It will be
an exhilarating experience because it is
an intense effort toward a meaningful end.
If only for a moment, I wish to be
this meaningful, the end
object of your focus, trade places
with the bodies beneath your hands, to feel you
find your way through my puzzle.
-Poem (unpublished) by Pamela Sinicrope