why is it you

with the tiny little bump

only about the size of a

ping - pong ball

that determines whether you will live or not

why is it you

who went downtown

to see whether or not

it was life threatening

and to find out it was

why is it you

who must sleep for twelve hours

while they remove the ping - pong ball

as we sit at home, tears falling

wondering if you'll make it or not

why is it you

who tries to talk so cheerily

while we stare at your now bare scalp

that once was filled with long black hair

now obliterated to nothing more than a little fuzz

why is it you

who tosses and turns in pain

being sick in a little blue bucket

standing over it for hours

while we learn at school

why is it you

who can still smile

despite the past

while you're diagnosed

again after five years

why is it you

who has to repeat

the whole painful process

running to downtown everyday

while we try to imagine when it will end