Now a Good Morning

is when I look in the mirror and don't have to use my plastic tweezers to pull gunk out of the stoma, or when I haven't misplaced the screwdriver to twist off the tab on a can of Compleat Modified, so I won't starve to death. When my incontinence pad is dry and I open the door to find the Oregonian on the mat, it is a good morning. On a good morning I roll my chair away from the desk, don't think about cancer taking my voice, (no one has to talk out loud when they are alone anyway), and all my medications are still in alphabetical order: Accupril, the triangular salmon-colored one and Atenolol, the beta-blocker are for high blood pressure. The square-shaped Capoten prevents heart attacks. Taking Detrol pills stamped D.T., I don't run as often to the bathroom. Lopressor, the pink capsule is also for the high blood pressure. Like Capoten, the Nitro patch helps my heart. Purple Synthroid keeps me cancer free. Dr. Tagen says Wellbutrin—the shape and color of a harvest moon—keeps my energy up. Its a good morning when my arm doesn't ache as I hold my feeding tube and funnel up high like the Statue of Liberty, to push the slowpoke coffee-colored liquid and my ground-up pills into my stomach. On a good morning the poorly translated closed-captions on my T.V. screen almost make sense and I'm able to work the damn Mailstation to read one e-mail from my daughter who says, Ma, you have to learn how to use it, it's your voice now.