Deja Vu
After two years,
I’m back.
Back at the hospital.
They’ve shifted to SSB now,
but really
nothing’s changed.
The infusion pump still hovers,
making that same sound:
pi pa po,
pi pa po.
Someone’s checking their weight
on the new digital machine.
Blood transfusion happening on one side,
chemotherapy on the other.
A separate room
for bone marrow.
A washroom for seat baths.
It’s the same.
I can still smell
Marro, Targo, Pulfurgen
I know the chemo drug names
by heart.
Mine was arsenic trioxide
with ATRA.
“Hope you brought your file,”
“Did you do CBC?”
the sister-in-charge asks.
I just nod,
trying to cover myself
before walking in
back into the hospital cage.
Two months inside.
And more than a hundred chemo rounds
in a year.
I pause.
Check my fever.
Wipe at the dried trace
of a nosebleed.
I try to hide
the scars I had buried.
I already knew
I had relapsed.
Dad was too tired
to be back.
Mom sat at home
with no hope.
I saw traffic in their heads.
I saw rain without even going out.
The doctor came to see me.
She asked,
“How are you feeling?”
I said,
“I’m feeling deja vu.”
But what came out was
“deja hu.”
- Vishwanath

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