Please Don’t Call Me ‘Dear’: A Poem From Cancer Treatment

I wrote a poem about life with endometrial cancer, rejecting pity and embracing strength, connection and the dignity of being truly seen.

I wrote this poem a couple of weeks after I lost my long, curly, salt-and-pepper hair.

The light touch on the shoulder.

The averted eyes.

The speaking softly.

Don’t!

Here’s what to say:

Anything else!

Chemo?

And when I nod.

You’ve got this! You’re a fighter. You’re strong. Good for you.

Anything but dear.

I will embrace you if you need to talk.

Maybe your mother, your sister, your friend, or, or, or.

I’ll know, because you will have tears in your eyes,

and I will comfort you.

I, too, have had friends die from cancer.

One in a matter of months, even with chemo.

And one friend who fought with everything,

her Stage IV lung cancer stretching out for ten years.

And one friend who chose not to treat and was gone in nine months.

Juicing. Withering.

I choose to fight.

It’s a no-bra day.

Steroids wore off at five.

Right in the middle of a writer’s Zoom.

Three time zones. Pacific, Mountain, Central.

Got to go. I’m fading.

Then the bones hurt.

Heating pads, Advil.

Oxy to sleep.

Wake up with an Oxy hangover.

How can someone get hooked on this?

Hop on my Writing in Jammies call.

Three-hour time difference.

8:30 a.m. call for them.

5:30 a.m. for me.

I make it by check-in at 7:10 my time.

Fade in half an hour.

My fellow writers hold me together.

Thinking of you.

Are you okay?

Yes, I’ll be fine on Monday.

Just have to suffer through.

You’re an inspiration.

Me? Just muddling through.

Take the frost cloth off the tomatoes

once it warms up to 50 degrees.

Maybe I can get away without watering them today.

Check the zucchini to help with pollination.

The female blooms withered before the male blooms appeared.

There’s still hope for zucchini if only they will pollinate.

I am the lucky one.

Cancer is gone with surgery.

Chemo is to buy me time.

Ten years, I hope. Until I’m 85.

I need to see my grandson grow.

Don’t call me dear.

I cover my bald head with caps handed down from friends

wrapping me in love.

A friend sends poems.

Look at me with pride.

I believe in science.

I’m part of the research.

Doctors will learn from me

and add it to their knowledge.

One day we will beat this.

I wanted my ears pierced again, thinking that’s the only way I will be able to look in the mirror. Luckily, I had asked my oncologist if it was okay to punch a hole in my skin while chemo drugs coursed through my body. She gave me a three-day window, and her nurse recommended a piercing salon twenty miles from my home. “It’s where my girls and I go for all our piercings.” I wore a soft, light green cap, handed down to me by a survivor friend, a cap which screamed “Chemo.” A 20- or 30-something woman greeted me. She was bejeweled with nose, lips, and eyebrow piercings. Multiple ear piercings. Probably more I couldn’t see. “Come on in, dear,” she said, gently touching my shoulder. I cringed. Maybe when I’m ninety, I’ll want you to call me dear.

Janet Dart is retired and living in Bend, Oregon. After retiring, Janet turned to writing her soon-to-be-published memoir, Tender Loving Care: Escaping One of the Most Violent Cults in the World. She is currently writing a memoir about confronting racism while raising her mixed-race son. Janet was diagnosed with thyroid cancer in 2015, which was cured with a thyroidectomy. In January 2025, she was diagnosed with endometrial cancer. The cancer was removed with a full hysterectomy. She is currently undergoing chemotherapy and radiation to ensure all the sarcoma cells are obliterated. Feel free to reach out to her at [email protected], or visit her website: janetbestdart.com.

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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