Elvis has Left the Building

Three things to tell you first:

My middle name is Elvis.

I’ve always been a rebel.

My hospital room was the nicest you ever saw.

But a cage gilded with gold is still a prison.

For me, I could never stand a cubicle job

or one in a small office. I feel imprisoned.

Raised in the wilds of Alaska, I need the freedom of wide open spaces.

I would have tied bedsheets together and rappelled out the eight-story window

if they gave me enough sheets.

Instead, for six months, I snuck out from the Oncology floor

half a dozen times a day. My great escape didn’t include

jumping over a barbwire fence on a motorcycle.

It was more devious than that.

I’d shuffle out to the elevator lobby with my IV poll

and act nonchalant like I was looking at a magazine or the vending machine

until the nurse at the desk was distracted, then I’d push the button

and take the first elevator anywhere but there.

Sometimes, when the nurses were waiting

for the next chemo bag to come up from pharmacy

(which sometimes took two or three hours)

I’d sneak past security at the main door

and leave the building entirely, walking blocks away,

ducking into coffee houses, a grocery, a record shop, and a bakery.

To aid my duplicity, I never wore those back-and-ass-baring hospital gowns.

I always wore my street clothes so folks wouldn’t know I was a patient.

It felt good to be seen as normal, even if only for a spell.

For those brief but cherished escapes, I was free of my cancer, free of my fear.

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About the author:

In the fall of 2022, I was diagnosed with stage 2 B-cell, non-specified, non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, a rare and aggressive cancer of the lymphatic system. Over the next six months, I endured six grueling hospitalizations for chemotherapy and immunotherapy. On February 6, 2023, I rang the bell on the Oncology ward. I’m cancer-free. Throughout the ordeal, I wrote poems. I include a handful below to share with your readers. They are original and unpublished.