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She starts to tremble. She fits.
Her eyes, mouth, neck change,
Her voice, screaming, painful,
“Mom’s here! Don’t worry!
I’m right here, look at me!”
Terrified, tears pouring down,
One, two, three, four seconds
Five, six, seven, eight minutes
She comes back… blank looks!
Surprised eyes wonder around,
Discovers her mother’s tears,
Her mouth still closed, silenced.
She looks at the doctor, he smiles,
She looks back at her mother,
She also smiles with hugs and kisses,
Nine, ten, eleven, twelve days
Have passed waiting for surgery,
Tumour recurred, eighth time,
Each time followed up in theatres,
Now, she is deep in her sleep,
Her mother awaits the results,
Exhausted, physically and mentally,
No words can escape her dry mouth,
Except her faint near-last breaths,
Praying, praying, and praying.
The surgeon starts. Razor. Marker.
Iodine. Local. Scalpel. Suction.
On. Off. Entering the area of
Previous operation. One mass out.
Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.
And seven. Eighth unreachable.
Done. Suture. Report to parents.
She lives…
… for 24 months.
I learnt it was alright to cry!
Thursday, 6thof December 2012
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