Journal entry by Madeline Miller —
I wrote this back in April of 2023. Posting today March 9, 2024.
I am not sure if I was trying to write a poem or what. But it made sense at the time. And when I read it today, it still touches me deep.
Title: Walk in these shoes
Walk in these shoes. Breakfast is radiation and physical therapy. Lunch is cognitive therapy and mental therapy. Dinner is a nap. Be a patient.
Walk in these shoes. Feel the burn on your skin. The deep deep burn past paper thin. You can bare it.
Walk in these shoes. Wearing hospital gowns and wondering carpeted walls. Blurred vision and the smell of hospital soap on every surface. It’s getting normalized. When did that happen?
Walk in these shoes. A poke to chest, a couple blood tests, a dictation of your ailments with a splash of hope. They become your friends.
Walk in these shoes. A chair upon which to sit. Which one will it be? Infused with toxic liquid straight to your veins. Adorned in pink and Shrouded and tubes, blankets and cheap juice. Into the arena with you.
Walk in these shoes. Your mind and strength erased. Bleached from this earth. The price to pay for the hope of a clean scan. Your soul remains, different.
Walk in these shoes. A burning needle, an image, a long sleep, body parts removed, moved and replaced. Bandages hide. Scars remain.
Walk in these shoes. They run with excitement, then walk with fatigue and crawl with exhaustion.
Walk in these shoes. They are tired, they are wired, they are weaker but wiser. They are scared, but brave. They are bruised and beautiful. Can you see it?
If you can’t walk in them, will you walk next to me?
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