Andrea Gibson’s poem about their experience post-chemo is being shared by thousands online. So really… how are you doing?
Global (21 February 2022) – Because you don’t always have to answer “I’m fine” when someone asks how are you doing…
Andrea Gibson is an American poet and activist who live in Boulder, Colorado. Their poetry focuses on gender norms, politics, social reform, and the struggles LGBTQ people face in today’s society.
Gibson uses gender-neutral pronouns, specifically they/them/theirs. Many of their poems are about gender identity, such as “Swing Set” and “Andrew”.
Gibson has said, regarding gender, “I don’t necessarily identify within a gender binary. I’ve never in my life really felt like a woman and I’ve certainly never felt like a man. I look at gender on a spectrum and I feel somewhere on that spectrum that’s not landing on either side of that.”
Gibson was recently diagnosed with Chronic Lyme Disease, and they have spoken openly about their experiences with CLD – both in terms of physical suffering and in difficulty accessing care and treatment. They have worked towards spreading awareness of CLD.
Most recently, Gibson wrote a poem about their experience post-chemo, which is being shared by thousands online.
“Like most folks, when asked how I’m doing, I often respond with “fine” or “good” or another stock answer, perhaps assuming that the person asking isn’t really wanting the details. But as the details are what makes life – life – and as I suspect the people who have been asking recently genuinely would like some details about my post-chemo time, I decided to write out an answer in the shape of a poem.
As you read it, I hope you are inspired to spend some time today honouring the complexity and fullness of your experiences. Even if I only share my responses with myself, I find that diving deeper into “small talk” questions is a fantastic exercise in greeting my inner state with a listening ear.”
You can read it below…
For Those Who Have Been Asking, “How Are You Doing?”
I feel stronger than I ever have.
I feel softer than I ever have.
I feel like flexing my biceps
because I’ve never had biceps
until now. I feel like flexing
my singing voice because
I’ve never had this much
to sing about. I look in the mirror
and mistake my head for the moon.
My dark thoughts are 238,856 miles
away from me believing them.
I throw pride parades in my hallway.
I throw cry parties in the shower.
I throw tantrums I catch
with my own hands, hold them
so gently they turn to lullabies.
I sometimes wake up scared
in the middle of the night,
but then I’ll wake up
in the morning like an A.M radio,
humming the words to every song
I forgot I loved. I’m becoming
more comfortable with uncertainty
than I am certainty. I know one is a god
and the other is god’s opposite.
I want to learn EVERYTHING—guitar,
whittling, mountain climbing, calligraphy,
how to dance in an end zone
when the game isn’t over. I’ve watched
every video there is about how to survive
in the wilderness with nothing
but an ax and a handsaw.
And I’ve made every joke there is
about how many bunny rabbits
have sent me screaming back
into my home whenever I’m alone
in my yard at night. I have a brand new
affinity for making fun of myself—
making Fun of myself. I can’t believe
how much of my life I made unfun
of myself. I feel ancient and newborn
at once. I talk to the dead as much as I talk
to the living, but I’m more inclined
to take the advice of the dead.
They know Infinity and This Very Second
have the exact same voice.
Sometimes I get nervous about how little
I care to “make something of myself.”
It’s new for me to prefer the unmaking––
all my covers torn off by a dream I had
during the first nap I took in 19 years.
After the nap I danced for days
to Olivia Rodrigo and tried hard to think
of someone who has abandoned me,
but no one has. No one in the whole world.
No one in all my years of living.
I didn’t always think that. It may take me
some time to know how to explain.
A few days a week I take a chocolate bar
out of my backpack just to hold it
in my palm. It was a gift from a man
in the chemo room on Halloween.
I don’t know if he’s still alive. I just know
his wife was made of so much hope
she looked like a firework in the sky
above his chair. Somedays I think
I could put on the right pair of shoes
and sprint 2200 miles back
to my hometown without breaking
a sweat. Somedays I catch myself
running, literally running, from one room
of my house to the other. I have so much
energy I’m pretty sure I could stand
on my roof wind-milling my arms
and heat my home for a decade.
I can’t find my lifelong hypochondria
anywhere. It left me months ago
and hasn’t returned. If you find it
in a Lost & Found box, please
leave it there. I don’t need it,
and never did. My whole body
is a garden of soft growing
hairs. I root for each one
like a parent at a little league
game. I root for each one knowing
something that saves me over and over
to know—the growing is the home run.
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