03/12/2026
Today, we are honored to share a beautiful and deeply moving poem written by poet Cheryl Denise - one of our infusion patients here at St. Joseph’s Hospital. Through her words, Cheryl offers a powerful reflection of grace, strength, faith, and love in the face of life’s challenges. 🩵
Her poem is a reminder of the courage so many of our patients carry each day and the profound ways they inspire everyone around them - staff, caregivers, and fellow patients alike.
Thank you, Cheryl, for allowing us to share your gift and your story. Your voice is a blessing, and your words will touch many hearts.
After the Diagnosis - by Cheryl Denise
I.
I choose the Catholic Hospital where St. Joseph greets
my husband and me, from his grotto
of muted blues and cloudy whites,
holding baby Jesus up,
as if to bless all who enter.
In the 1500’s we Mennonites shunned
graven images as idolatrous.
II.
Through double doors
we enter the hidden landscape
of the pale and gaunt.
I pick the recliner
in the corner by the window.
Nurse Sarah, gentle as communion,
kneels by my side, asks how I am.
Of course I am crying now.
Everyone here wants to help you, she says.
She shows us the control buttons
on my chair for heat and massage,
points to a table with coffee and tea.
Outside a crisp wind stirs dead leaves.
III.
The doctor says, You’ll feel some pressure,
as the nurse inserts the needle in my port.
One stick for the whole day.
He smiles soft and reassuringly,
a slight tremor in his hand.
He’s been doing this for decades.
His sneakers grey and black like mine
IV.
She hangs little bags of antinausea
and steroid meds,
wonders about the blue streaks in my hair.
I needed something wild.
She likes them,
says, Some women color their hair
according to their diagnosis, pink for breast cancer,
orange for leukemia.
Later I learn teal is for ovarian.
V.
As she hangs the first chemo bag,
I ask, Will it hurt?
No, but it might feel a little cold going in.
I had imagined a sulfurous acid pulsing
through my body, every tissue
becoming irritated and mean.
I feel nothing, put my feet up.
My husband helps with my special socks
and mittens, designed with pockets
for ice packs to prevent neuropathy.
For three hours it drips.
I can’t turn book pages with mitts,
can’t write either. I didn’t think
this through when I packed my things.
VI.
After removing my socks and mitts
I’m able to use the bathroom all by myself.
But when I try to exit
I can’t lift the base of my IV pole
over the threshold.
VII.
My husband comes and helps
says, The older man who can’t speak,
saw you, and started waving his arms
towards the nurses’ station,
then pointing to the bathroom.
His daughter thought he was in horrible pain.
When the nurse hung his chemo med
she warned him his was one of the big guns.
She reviewed the side effects:
Anything cold will feel colder,
at home wear gloves to get anything out of the fridge.
She told of another patient
who thought he was dying
when he went out in the snow,
how his lungs felt like ice.
VIII.
At noon Sarah hands out brown paper sacks.
A can of Sprite, Lay’s potato chips,
a turkey sandwich on white.
I thought we were supposed to eat healthy
while fighting cancer
but Wonder Bread tastes so good.
Patients come and go,
a woman in an orange silk headscarf,
a muscled tattooed man grabbing
the arm of a loved one as he staggers.
My second chemo med
will take ninety minutes or so
but I can take my mitts off,
read my novel.
IX.
Upon leaving
I’m surprised I don’t feel worse.
Before entering the dark,
I wish a holy night
to Joseph and our baby Jesus.
Cheryl Denise
