Biopsy Poem by Don Winslow

With every Biopsy, a part of me dies,
A part of my body, a part of my spirit,
Like a rock beaten down by the constant drip-drip of water,
Slowly, surely, wearing, gnawing.

Variable is the location,
Constant is the anger, the worry, the despair.
A needleful of my Prostate, a snip of my skin, a scrape of my mouth..
Death of tissue, death of psyche.

The bliss of benignity, or the malice of malignancy,
Which will it be?
Push the pause button on your life,
Don’t start anything new!
When, Dear God, when will that Doctor call?

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I spoke to several people recently about the wait for their Biopsy results. It is awful. My last one took three weeks, by which time I assumed everything was OK. WRONG! !
Up till this poem I had never thought about the death of my tiny samples- they’re me, a living part of me. The snips of skin have come from all over my body, probably dozens of them.