Survivor

Carefully placed 

under tissue paper I found 

nestled between
colorful cottony socks 

in a pouch of shimmering silver, 

were three golden ribbons 

like crossed fingers of hope, 

a pair of earrings 

and a small charm--

that medal of honor

tiny beading attached 

linked one after the other. 

One word repetitiously 

encircling the third, 

survivor, survivor, survivor, survivor 

it read. 

Meant to bring joy
by the sender to me-- 

an early stage cancer patient 

treatment now ended 

deemed cancer free. 

Do I tell her I’m not 

nor never will be 

the survivor she is 

with cancer behind her

instead of in front? 

How once I too thought 

when the treatments were done 

I was a survivor 

and would gladly have worn 

that delicate necklace 

of silver and gold 

with that word and the hearts 

the meaning so true, 

at the time. 

Or do I say thank you 

and nothing more, 

letting her think
survivor, 

a word we both share? 

With cancer behind, inside and ahead, 

my eightieth infusion 

just hours away, 

survivor, survivor, survivor, survivor, 

with the four little hearts 

that golden ribbon of hope 

will remain tucked inside 

that silvery pouch 

my silent reminder 

a word I can’t wear. 

Survivor I want to be; 

survivor I hope to be. 

Survivor,
survivor?

It's not supposed to be me.