May 24: "Awake," Sleeplessness, "Doctor Appointment"

Billy Collins suffers from insomnia . . . 

Awake

by: Billy Collins

Dead quiet night--

I lie in bed

waiting for

the other pin to drop.

I am no stranger to sleeplessness.  In fact, most nights, I don't even try to put my head to pillow until well past midnight.  Often, I see one or two in the morning.

It's Friday night.  Raining.  The beginning of a long holiday weekend.  The lilacs in my home town (and in my backyard) are waking up, stretching, yawning purple yawns.  

I had a doctor's appointment today.  Just a six-month checkup.  No earth-shattering diagnosis.  Unlike most people, going to dentists or doctors has never bothered me.  I'm not afraid of shots.  Don't care if I need to be prodded or probed.

That being said, I did work in the healthcare setting for over 20 years, and I've seen some horrible shit.  And when you work in the medical field, you tend to be a little bit of a hypochondriac.  In the past, I've diagnosed myself with testicular cancer, angina, diabetic retinopathy, and complex post traumatic stress.  I've been proven wrong over and over.

The good news is that I will live another six months, at least until my next checkup, unless I have a close encounter with bus or mountain lion.

The bad news is Saint Marty is still a poet.  No cure for that.

Doctor Appointment

by: Martin Achatz

I sit in the exam room,

half-naked, journal

in my lap, pen in hand,

wait for the doctor

to come in, listen

to my lungs, heart,

palpate my stomach,

read these lines I've written,

diagnose what's wrong

with this poem.

February 6: Magazine Article, Lousy Hormones, Devotions

...But this damn article I started reading made me feel almost worse.  It was all about hormones.  It described how you should look, your face and eyes and all, if your hormones were in good shape, and I didn't look that way at all.  I looked exactly like the guy in the article with lousy hormones.  So I started getting worried about my hormones.  Then I read this other article about how you can tell if you have cancer or not.  It said if you had any sores in your mouth that didn't heal pretty quickly, it was a sign that you probably had cancer.  I'd had this sore on the inside of my lip for about two weeks.  So figured I was getting cancer.  That magazine was some little cheerer upper.  I finally quit reading it and went outside for a walk.  I figured I'd be dead in a couple of months because I had cancer.  I really did.  I was even positive I would be.  It certainly didn't make me feel gorgeous.

Funny, Holden is a little bit of a hypochondriac.  He reads about an illness and then has the illness.  Of course, it doesn't help that he's clinically depressed and slowly creeping toward a nervous breakdown.  All the drinking, all the thoughts about illness and death.  Holden is a mess, and he's about 15 pages away from being hospitalized for his mental illness.

You don't have to be clinically depressed to worry about things like sores in your mouth and bad hormones.  When I was a teenager, about Holden's age, I actually convinced myself that I had testicular cancer.  For two or so months, I walked around with this incredible secret.  My days were numbered.  I hugged people longer.  Enjoyed my Rice Krispies with raisins a little more.  Watched some sunsets.  It was bad.  Eventually, I went to see a doctor about it, and I was given the grim news:  I wasn't going to die.

Worry is a self-fulfilling thing, though.  If you worry that you have terminal testicular cancer, your balls are going to hurt, even if nothing is wrong.  Today, however, I have a big worry that has nothing to do with my nether regions.

I'm organizing the writing of a Lenten Devotional for church.  I got 47 people to volunteer to write devotions for me.  That's doesn't mean that all 47 people will follow through with their promises.  At this point, the Devotional is supposed to be printed tomorrow, and we are about 17 or 18 readings short.  Now is the time when I start phoning and e-mailing people, begging them to finish their devotions.  It's not testicular cancer, but it's still not fun.

By tomorrow morning, around 9 a.m., come hell or lumps on my testes, I will have 47 devotions.  That's definite.

Even if Saint Marty has to stay up all night writing them himself.

Don't forget the self exam, guys