Mary Jane

How ignorant I was before it befell me
To the void of side effects
The hope outweighs the reality 
As I accept the treatment
The liquids shot into my bloodstream
The pills that get caught in my throat
But the body still holds debt to poison
Not even the miracle drugs come without consequence

Morning Nausea 
Heartburn nausea 
Sweet salivating nausea 
Bitter rolling nausea 
Empty stomach nausea 
Full stomach nausea 

I press my tongue to the lid of my mouth as hard as I can
And breathe through my nose
But the tide only slows, never passing

Mary Jane, you tricky girl
You’re not supposed to be here in the morning
But I’ll drink a coffee with you
So that I can eat breakfast because of you 

Zofran gives me diarrhea 
And then the diarrhea medicine makes me dehydrated 
And everything is liquid, and I’m afraid to go anywhere
And I’m delirious with medical intervention

But Mary Jane does the same thing for free
She doesn’t ask for a side effect in payment
She does complicate my sobriety, but doles out a panic attack if I take too much
Which is so nice of her to establish this boundary for both of us 

I tell Gable I feel “bologney,” which is our code word derived from Stoney Bologney

But it doesn’t feel appropriate, because I feel more like a cumulonimbus cloud
Large and puffy, but floating through 
But I’m not vomiting through this family outing, so we float on 

It’s a burning through my core
A flame that can’t get out 
I rip off my socks in the hot flash
And walk into the November night, still aflame

But Mary Jane comes to my front porch with a bucket of cold water
She puts out the fire, and I delight in her coolness 
As she fills my lungs, the flame dwindles until the chill pricks my bare skin
So I can resume my evening at the mercy of our thermostat

So yes, you saw my car at the dispensary
And I might have forgotten your son’s name
But I’m here and I’m upright and I’m not throwing up
Have you met my bestie, Mary Jane?