Catch a Painted Pony

Hydrogen. It all starts with hydrogen – which is fitting, of course.

I’m cold. The lasers glare balefully, top, left, and right.

They lack empathy, but they’re comfortingly professional.

Helium. Buoyancy. Hope? Staring at the same 3M

adhesive patch a few inches above me. Holding the rubber ring,

the dog chew toy that keeps my hands high, occupied.

Lithium. That zeroth row disappears in a heartbeat, but

represents little progress. Little progress – the indeterminacy

of biological systems is a madness to a physical scientist.

Beryllium. The techs remain uniformly kind, solicitous. Mind you,

I’m the 8 a.m. guy, the day is young. But the solace is welcome.

The small talk, the snap of the sheets, the fitting of the mold.

Boron. At last a p block element. An eponymous reminder of

how uncomfortably full I am (and am supposed to be). The delicate

timing of that last glass of water after the 5:30 workout.

Carbon. The first organic element. The organic element. The big C.

The bike ride in was quiet so early in the morning, the campus

softly lit with long shadows. The hospital smells of coffee.

Nitrogen. First quarter. Seven is also the number of weeks to be endured.

To pass the time, I replay the simple math: two grays per day, five days per week,

seven weeks. Seventy grays. A pleasing collection of primes: two, five, seven.

Oxygen. A deep breath as the music pipes in. Spotify. The station

depends on the techs, but even though I’m vastly older than they,

they somehow pick songs from my youth. 60s. 70s. Bless them. I reminisce.

Fluorine. Is that really “In the Year 2525”? Fade in Spooner, Wisconsin.

A vacation with cousins, the moon landing on the television, adults in the bar,

watching low gravity figures bob in black and white. Sawdust on the floor. Fade out.

Neon. Neoplasm. What more need one say?

Sodium. Natrium. What one hopes for, of course, is rebirth.

But one must have a certain respect for the tenacity of those cells,

one’s own, that have fled the surgeon’s knife, dug in, survived.

Magnesium. I love to light those curls of silvery metal with a propane torch,

cover them with dry ice, and watch them flare to unbearable brightness, fuming,

consuming death, driving undergraduates to applause! Every professor’s dream.

Aluminum. Aircraft skin. I recall the hold of that C130, headed to KKMC.

Sometimes the tides of life are not to be resisted – one makes one’s peace,

one abides, one survives – or perhaps the contrary, but there is strength in serenity.

Silicon. Halfway there. The tomotherapy gantry has now made fourteen revolutions.

Halfway. On that elevated bed, guided like a human torpedo headfirst into that tube.

And halfway through the seven weeks, the side effects begin. Comforting rhythm.

Phosphorus. Of course I’m counting elements. I’m a chemist.

Any distraction, any point of focus. The boredom, the uncomfortably full bladder.

The CT scan before the radiotherapy begins. Counting is all I’ve got.

Sulfur. Planning the post-treatment countdown tweet – plotting the perfect gif.

If this must be endured, I shall sculpt it, paint it, impose some terms.

I will not surrender. I will defy.

Chlorine. The last halogen. The new job has me wearing a tie every day.

The techs ask me what job that is, as they don’t get a lot of ties in the tomograph.

Ah, hubris! Prof and parent were fun, but patient was less expected.

Argon. Every Thursday comes the post-radiation meeting with the oncologist.

And occasionally a med student! I’m glad for that. I may be rolling some

serious life dice, but, hey, at least I’m still educating (damn it).

Potassium. Last row. That word game I downloaded on my phone.

To distract in the waiting room as I listen for the intercom and my name (hurry).

Another glance at the clock (hurry). One more word (hurry).

Calcium. The photon energies are in the megaelectron volt range. I laugh

at having once said no to a dental X-ray, because: radiation! Kid stuff.

(Hey, it’s ok to be a little bit morbid. Sometimes irony is just the ticket.)

Scandium. Three quarters done. The element that I had to look up on day four,

when I got too bored with straight numbers, but discovered that my memory of

the periodic table did not extend to twenty-one. Now forever memorable, scandium.

Titanium. Ah, the transition metals! The thrill of the d electrons!

A moment of regret, knowing I’ll stop before copper –copper, my research friend.

But, then again, I’m ready to be done. More accurately, I’m desperate to be done.

Vanadium. The last element with a single letter abbreviation! (One seizes all

trivia for distraction at this point.) The gantry continues its buzzing revolutions.

I’ve been in this tube all my life – my universe a tomograph, a body mold, a chew toy.

Chromium. Prostate cancer, if you’re wondering. Once one joins that club,

one meets surprisingly many members. A shared grimace — a shrug.

Could be worse.

Manganese. You get through the sixth week by telling yourself that there’s

only one more. You get through the seventh week by telling yourself that

you’re five, four, three, two, one, done. Teeth bared.

I’d have broken at eight.

Iron. The devil’s own element. All those oxidation states, all those spin states.

Is life work? Is it family? Friends? Is it this web of woven memories,

this flickering gamma knife mandala all about me, unsensed but real?

Cobalt. In its penultimate revolution, the gantry slows slightly. My ears

are exquisitely tuned at this point. The adrenaline kicks in (a hormone

that hasn’t been suppressed, thank you very much). And then…

Nickel. Nickel!

Nickel.

Christopher J. Cramer

December 23, 2018