I am the ghost that roams the battlements, waiting for the final preparations to begin, waiting for this siege to end.
The battle is not over once the last shot is fired. It takes time for the round to become effective, time for her to recover from its effects. The siege is finished when all our gates to stand unbarred, the main as well as the posterns. Only then will the first phase of our celebrations begin.
I pace the walls in anticipation, wondering how to chronicle this phase of her journey without relating some of my own. Like a child playing hide and seek, I know more of me has been visible than I would care to believe. Though I close my eyes as I write this, it helps only in my mind.
In the yellow light of twilight, I review my equipment one final time. For months, a satchel with provisions has lingered near the postern, easily snatched for fighting. Experience has winnowed its contents to the essentials, a handful of rations, a flask of water, a few squares of chocolate, a tiny apothecary, cotton to shield my ears from the noise of battle, a pad and pencil to note reconnaissance and orders, a book to relieve the inevitable waiting boredom. Tucked through one strap hangs my only armor, a padded jersey emblazoned with the name of a foreign land to ward against the cold. The mage-general's magic strips the air of warmth as did the captain-general's before him. At times its hood lends me anonymity to watch and listen unobserved, a brief refuge from the flurry of activity on the battlements to note my observations. A steaming flagon remains my only weapon, a caffeinated potion that keeps my eyes wide and my senses sharp, a witches’ brew of coffee and cocoa laced with sugar, like the experience, both scalding and bittersweet.
It is hard to know which has been more difficult, the weeks of ceaseless fighting or a break just long enough to restore a few days of normalcy before the battle resumes, shattering the illusion into a cracked and jagged reflection of reality. These furloughs, while welcome, serve as both history and foreshadowing, reminders of what we have lost and what we hope to regain.
I am the ghost that roams the battlements, clinging to living in hopes of being made whole or dispelled and finally allowed to rest.
© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III
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Every time we went to treatment, I wore an England hoodie that we’d picked up in Target of all places. The oncologist’s office and treatment room was cold. We were fortunate that the treatment room was large enough for me to stay with Karen. In fact it was spacious. The closer, alternate office was cramped to where only patients were allowed in. This room was also up on the fifth floor near the bay with an entire bank of windows where we could look out onto at least a semblance of suburban green.
I always had a shoulder pack with a book and a notebook, where I wrote down the essentials from each appointment and started working on these essays. I also had a few provisions for Karen, snacks, light drugs, earplugs, miscellaneous things we though we might want or need. She had her own book and usually some crocheting. Since we went in the morning, I always brought coffee for us both. They had coffee there, but I knew better than trusting anyone’s office coffee more than my own Starbucks spiked with cocoa. Though there was also a café in the lobby that had decent coffee if we were running late. We ate lunch there many days after treatment. Between appointments and treatment, it tended to be a full day.
The office where Karen got treatment is closed now, which is a shame to me. There was something peaceful about the setting compared to the 2-3 others we saw in the same practice. It was worth the longer drive for us. Though the closer one is supposed to have moved into larger quarters.
Picture notes: These are the battlements of Caernarfon Castle in Wales, the site where the Prince of Wales is traditionally crowned. It was taken from one tower looking down to another near the water gate. You can see part of the archway in the upper right-hand corner.
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