Orla O’Brien’s love of reading and writing was shaped through years of professional engagement with books, including work in two prominent bookshops and nine years as a branch librarian. She is a proud member of the Naas Creative Writers’ Group, where she continues to develop her craft within a supportive literary community. Currently facing breast cancer, Orla has found the experience both challenging and clarifying, reinforcing her belief that life is short and that creative ambitions should not be deferred. This renewed sense of purpose has strengthened her commitment to writing, and she is presently working on a young adult novel.
Chemotherapy and Me
An unexpected fate,
A treacherous journey
into unknown territory.
That ugly C word
hung in the air
of the consultant’s office.
Bursting into tears,
it was so hard to process the diagnosis,
being told I have breast cancer,
between Stage 1 / Stage 2.
Overwhelmed, upset and devastated,
an internal dialogue ignited.
How am I going to cope with this?
My imagination went wild
thinking about what will follow,
an onslaught of misery,
tainted, knowing not everyone survives.
I was consumed with melancholy thoughts,
knowing that this malignant intruder
was waging war against my body.
Surely, I heard it wrong?
Cancer happened to older people,
Not me!
Flowers, gifts and cards,
arrived in their droves,
adding pressure to do well.
Everyone had good intentions,
but I just wanted to curl into a ball,
and make it all go away.
For several days,
the fat tears rolled down a blotchy face,
then I knew I had to buckle up,
and hold on tight,
with white knuckles,
and stay in control,
of this precarious rollercoaster ride.
Chemotherapy,
can’t be described,
in eloquent terms.
It’s too repulsive,
there is no way to sugar coat it,
It can be pure hell.
I was scheduled for
six rounds of chemotherapy,
with surgery and radiation to follow.
I fell at the first hurdle.
My mindset was muddied from the get go.
Psychologically, I knew others got very sick
when having chemotherapy,
and unfortunately,
that happened to me too.
Each time the poison percolated
into every pore, every cell, every nook.
My skin became grey, scaly and dried out.
There was a dragon in my throat,
a gatekeeper to my stomach and soul.
I had to shovel in the food,
and force it down my oesophagus.
The dragon plagued me,
and whispered demonically,
Go on throw up that last meal.
I had to fight his fiery temperament,
needing to resist the urge of purging,
and feed my needy body,
that demanded to be fed,
which was a constant battle.
Food had no flavour.
I imagine it’s what cardboard
would taste like.
Also, the horrible metallic taste
which lingered in my mouth
was never satisfied.
It went away momentarily,
after each gulp of trying
to quench the constant thirst.
Then wham, bam, boomerang,
seconds later
the intolerant metallic taste was back again,
which haunted and taunted me.
But I took comfort with these harsh symptoms
because it indicated that chemotherapy
was in my blood stream,
causing havoc but also doing its job.
Extreme exhaustion followed,
which was twinned,
with extreme frustration.
Before Cancer I was living life
at a hundred miles an hour.
Now I’m told to relax and mooch about,
telling this to a highly active person,
is like asking them to eradicate,
their very essence.
To combat the boredom
and to avoid every day
evolving into Groundhog’s day,
I cultivated a loose plan every day.
Some days I couldn’t do anything,
I had to take to the bed.
My body was easily worn out.
Each round came with different side effects,
sometimes with aches and pains,
in my bones and all over.
As my immune system was compromised,
I became more susceptible to colds and flus,
which took twice as long to shake off.
My hair as predicted fell out,
that didn’t bother me or cause me stress.
Even though I now look like a crossbreed
of a bald chicken and Uncle Fester
from the Addams family!
I opted out from acquiring a wig,
knowing my luck, it would fly off,
with a gust of wind!
So, I hid the travesty,
under colourful chic beanies.
I have just completed,
six rounds of chemotherapy.
I’m psychically jaded
and emotionally drained,
BUT, I feel triumphant
knowing my cancer tumour has shrunk,
that it has all been worthwhile.
Considering what it will be like
after having a mastectomy,
my vanity has gone out the window.
I just want the cancer gone,
destroyed and eliminated.
I will do whatever it takes.
The Stray Cat
Looking forlorn,
shivering,
she sat on the garden wall.
Her eyes fixed on me,
boring into my cosy kitchen,
locking my eyes,
Forcing eye contact.
It made me shudder
when I saw her skeletal body,
bones almost protruding
from a neglected, mangy coat.
I felt guilty eating dinner
as she looked on,
Salivating, the spittle foaming
around her tiny mouth.
Yet if I made a move
she would be gone in a flash,
scampering away jumping onto
the garden shed,
dashing and disappearing
into the overgrowth.
She doesn’t fully trust me yet,
but I was determined to tame her.
I don’t know who owns this cat,
or where she comes from,
all I know is that,
she is in dire need to be loved.
She tried to execute a deadly stare,
a form of self-protection,
but I see sadness and desperation too.
Stalking this quiet suburb,
she must see other cats
treated like royalty.
And probably wonders
why did she get the short straw.
Even in nature,
the world remains corrupt.
What did she do
to deserve this miserable, lousy life?
What could I do to make it better?
There is a reason
why I didn’t own a pet.
I didn’t want to get too attached
and then lose them.
I’m also not the maternal type.
Yet, this mysterious cat
tugged at my heartstrings
and made me a sentimental fool.
I considered myself robust,
happy on my own,
not needing any company.
Independent to a fault,
closed off,
Yet, I thought I was content.
But something about this cat,
this feral creature,
unearthed emotions
I buried deep,
and made me concerned
for her welfare.
Daring her to come closer,
I left out a saucer of milk
with a few scraps,
from the previous night’s dinner.
She was giddy on her feet,
and looked longingly at the food,
then at me,
the tantalizing dinner
was too hard to resist.
She pounced from the wall
and came closer.
We tiptoed around each other for a week.
I stayed in the kitchen,
while she ate all she could.
Then I left the kitchen door ajar.
She purred but was afraid
to cross the threshold.
I wondered
what her upbringing was like.
Why was she so scared?
How could anyone be cruel
to this hapless, intriguing cat?
I inched closer to stroke her,
but she jerked her head
as though she was about
to be scalded by a hot iron.
Weeks went by
and we became comfortable
in each other’s presence.
With trepidation,
she cautiously
entered the kitchen.
She then bowed her head
and nestled at the foot of my chair.
She let me pet her.
She now had shiny, gleaming fur.
Her tail spun in circles in the air,
her whiskers tickled my hand,
she never stopped purring.
Perhaps she is my kindred spirit,
bringing love and happiness
into my home
and vice versa.
To show her appreciation
she left a dead bird on my doorstep.
Although I was disgusted,
I knew it was her way of saying
Thank you for taking care of me.
The Magpie
She had to have the latest trend,
she needed to look on point.
After the mortgage was paid
she saw no reason to save.
Didn’t she work hard as a clerk?
Didn’t she deserve to be spoilt a little?
Swanning in and out of shops
she became an expert shopper.
And in one fell swoop
she knew what she wanted.
She didn’t dilly dally.
She lived like a magpie,
and loved collecting
shiny new things.
Enough was never enough.
She rummaged through her walk-in closet,
attached to every item
as though it was an extension of herself.
She couldn’t let go or declutter,
many items still bearing the price tags.
Acquiring new items
was like getting a dopamine hit,
pure ecstasy and contentment,
which only lasted momentarily.
When she got home,
the buzz had worn off.
There was a hunger in her,
begging her to buy more.
She knew she had an addiction
but it could be worse,
She wasn’t an alcoholic or drug addict.
She had class,
she had style.
Since when was that a crime?
Her style was impeccable and chic.
Celebrities and influencers looked fabulous
on Instagram so why couldn’t she?
Her credit cards were maxed out,
but wasn’t she worth it?
She loved the compliments,
the looks and gasps,
as she sauntered into lounges and clubs.
She loved feeling important.
She tried to hide her spending
from boyfriends and potential husbands.
They loved how she looked,
but couldn’t fathom why it cost so much?
That fateful night,
heading out with the girls
took the usual two hours preparation.
She sat at her glamourous
vanity dressing table,
only the best for the best.
She pulled out the drawer,
containing her exclusive make-up
from Brown Thomas,
lined up like obedient soldiers.
First, she cleansed her face,
then added a luxurious face mask.
She knew what she had to do
to transform herself,
to look like a Kardashian.
Primed and pouting,
she admired her reflection,
pure perfection.
Her 400euro heated hair styler
gave her bouncy curls.
Serum applied from root to tip
nourished her mane.
Then after a little spruce and dash of
her exquisite perfume,
she was ready to slip
into a dress, hugging her
in all the right places,
created by an emerging designer.
The uber driver was a bit creepy,
trying every chat up line
drummed up in his dim head.
She was used to eejits
throwing themselves at her.
But she had standards,
and this chap was not on par.
She sighed a sigh of relief,
arriving at the venue.
Her new designer heels
pinched her feet a little.
But she held her head high
and strutted into the popular club.
She sipped champagne
and danced with other socialites
after gushing over each other’s outfits.
There wasn’t much else to discuss.
As the night went into the early hours,
It was time to call it a night.
Muttering under her breath,
she was not impressed
that it was the same uber driver
driving her home.
Engrossed and uploading photos
to social media
she got a fright and let out a yelp.
When the car veered abruptly off the road
she paid little attention
to the flashing lights,
that disappeared round a bend.
She snapped out of her delirium,
moments later
when she saw her house
on fire and blazing in front of her.
Horror gripped her throat,
she fell to the ground,
she couldn’t speak.
Damn, she must have forgotten,
to unplug her heated hair styler!
She didn’t have house insurance.
What will she do?
She had nothing to help her start over.
This was the cruellest way
the universe could teach her a lesson.
The Galway Review 