No Control

I know it appears I’m staring incoherently as I process the meaning of those jarring words. I understand what is happening; likely better than the specialists surrounding my bed, uttering conciliatory sentiments. These well-intentioned practitioners are determined to make me complacent. It is not an issue of coming to terms with my predicament. It’s a matter of losing control. Behind my stupor is a type of awakening – being in control is a farce.

Oh, we certainly have our in-control moments. We pat ourselves on the back when we curb an urge to engage in harmful behaviors or make decisions that result in positive outcomes. When life’s going well, we believe it’s to our credit. When things truly fall apart, our lack of control becomes evident. Within this harsh reality, “[t]he seed of a poem lay dormant in my heart.” It’s called resignation.

This is a rewrite in response to dVerse author Mish’s prose prompt, incorporating the line: “The seed of a poem lay dormant in my heart.” A line taken from Winged Words by Valsa George.

I wrote the original piece of prose after learning my mother’s last cancer treatment option was not working. While looking at my mother’s face as she took in the news, I felt the seed planted in my heart, waiting to bloom through written words.