Eight of my friends have died or are dieing in the last year. This includes some I grew up with in Broken Hill, some of the 'generation of 68', some that I just knew. Good people, not so good but good fun, bad people that I loved just the same. Seems like it's time to think about it. 

The last time i was seriously ill was when I was thirteen. Aches and pains in my knees, and I had to stay in bed for about three months. I spent most of it in a small side room built for my Grandmother who died before she could occupy it. It was an important period for me. For the first time, I read a lot. My family were miners, working class people who were literate and numerate, but never did much of it. There was no TV (fortunately) so my Mother went to the library to bring back books. Not poetry, but lots of history and adventure novels. I developed the habit of enjoying my own company. It was the best education I had until I went to the WEA when I was 28.

In August 2010 I fractured a heel. This didn't hold me down long, but when I was on the mend my GP sent me to a podiatrist. He looked at my footsies and observed a pool of blood had dripped down from the fracture, but all it would take would be a few months light sandpapering and that would be that. After longer than a few months, he looked at the heel and said "That's not going away ... there's something funny about it." The comment disturbed me enough to go back to my GP and ask the question. He looked at it closely and said "Oh yeah .. that's a wart!" Thought for a minute (perhaps about the million bucks I would take from him if he was wrong) and sent me to a skin specialist - just in case. Specialist looked at it and warbled in tune "That's a wart!" - then may have had thoughts similar to the GP. He inflicted enough pain on my heel to make me sympathetic to the victims of the inquisition. Three days later, he booked me in to the only melanoma centre in the world (I am told) in North Sydney. On December 15, I had most of the flesh of my Left heel removed.

The reason i write this is because hardly anyone has heard of an acral melanoma. Not unless they know about Bob Marley. They are on the hands or the feet, and aren't neccessarily the result of excess sunlight. Commonly found among persons of African, Asian or Aboriginal descent. They can be found among Caucasians. But I'm a rare bird. I might have a dna test when i can, just to check out whether there's something in my heritage that my parents weren't told about - well, maybe. Those were racist times. I gave the podiatrist a good bottle of red for Christmas.  

Now I have had another three months in bed. It is likely that the cancer has not spread, but nothing is certain. None of the Doctors who looked at my foot when it was fractured recognised it. I don't blame them. It looked like I hadn't washed my heel. My GP Sister in law admitted that she wouldn't recognise it either. I'm lucky. I've got a few more years to inflict poetry on the world ... and a few months to read books and write.  Here's a poem when I thought I was for the big drop:

III

that thing that is not me

            has intelligence, will & yearning.

he wants to live & love

            & whisper jokes to me at night.

why so cruel & hungry?

            he is my cruelty & hunger.

he pretends to be my friend

            but I am his food.

when the doctors open me

            they will meet my sweet baby.

tonight the moon is red –

            rest in the cradle of my flesh.