Verse
The Pain of Nursing Home Placement
© 2009 Ulrich Joho, Flickr | CC-BY-SA | via Wylio
Maybe it’s shame
Maybe it’s fear
Maybe it’s acknowledgement
That the end is near.
*****
Maybe it’s the halls
The impersonal room
That looks and feels
Like a living tomb.
*****
Maybe it’s the money
$500 a day
Eating retirement
And inheritance away.
*****
Maybe it’s the crowd
Of lonely souls
Who have death
As their only goal.
*****
Maybe it’s hurt
And maybe it’s the pain
That she doesn’t even
Remember your name.
*****
Maybe it’s the smell
Of those dying
That permeates the rooms
Of those left lying
*****
In beds so cold
While TVs fill
The hours and minutes
They’re trying to kill.
*****
Maybe it’s the inadequacy
You feel inside
That she cared for you
And now you can’t provide
*****
She birthed you
And nursed you
But you can’t reciprocate
And see this through.
*****
You tell yourself
“The staff is great”
And it’s true
There’s no debate.
*****
“This is for the best”
You have to say
Again it’s true
But it feels so grey.
*****
It’s hard and painful
And pricks the guilt syndrome
When you put a loved one
In a nursing home.
The unreasonable love of a mother
© 2007 Tanel Teemusk, Flickr | CC-BY-SA | via Wylio
The doctor told her
“This pregnancy can kill you.
Your body likely can’t carry to term.”
And
“Nobody knows you’re carrying
There will be no shame
No guilt if you terminate.”
And
“Even if people knew
They would understand . . .
Think about your husband
Your parents
Your family and
Your friends.”
*****
She knew,
of course she knew
Everyone knew
She wouldn’t, couldn’t conceive
This wasn’t suppose to happen
This wasn’t planned.
Her disease, her body
Couldn’t take a pregnancy.
“Talk it over” the doctor said.
“This isn’t an easy decision”
He said.
*****
But in her heart
She made up her mind.
She would risk her life
For the slim chance of birth.
I imagine it wasn’t popular
there were empty platitudes
I imagine words were spoken
Behind her back and
To her face.
*****
We can’t always explain love
Love doesn’t always listen to sense.
Today, love laid in her casket
Today, love packed the church
Today, love poured out in tears
Today, a one year old
stole a last look
At the one who gave her life
The one who gave her love.
Because the unreasonable love of mothers
Is the meaning of history
Where were you when you heard the news?
Carlee Soto learning that her sister had died in the Sandy Hook School Shootings
Were you driving?
Cell phone rings
Kids in tow
Tears flowing
“Mom, what’s wrong?”
Did you pull over?
Did you tell them?
Or did you not?
“Nothing, honey.
Moms just crying.”
Or
“Mom-mom just called.
Pop-Pop died.”
*****
Were you at work?
“This isn’t good.
You thought to yourself
“Dad never calls me at work.”
It goes to voicemail.
“Call me ASAP”
Dad says.
Voice shaking.
You go to the bathroom
Return the call
Lock the doors.
“It’s your mom . . . .”
*****
Was it in on your couch?
Searching your Facebook newsfeed
You see it.
“It’s a joke”
She can’t be . . .
You text your best friend
No response
It’s not a joke.
Oh, God. Oh, God.
*****
Was it late at night?
2:00 am
Someone knocks on the door
The dog starts barking.
Everybody’s home.
So you thought.
“Are you the father of . . .”
“Yes”, you tell the officer.
“I regret to inform you . . .”
*****
Perhaps you were there
The moment
The hysteria
When eyes lost life
You will never forget
That time, place
Where color faded to gray
When clarity became confusion
When life ended suddenly
And a part of you with it.
When Ghosts Beckon Us to Join
© 2006 twitter.com/mattwi1s0n, Flickr | CC-BY | via Wylio
The death was sudden
Tragic and violent
The metal tore against his flesh
Before it threw him.
“I cant! I CAN’T!!!” you yell
When they asked you to see
To identify
The one who had just hugged you
When he walked out the door for work.
*****
Your cell rings
You think it’s him.
You prepare a table for two.
His ghost still lives with you.
His birthday ready with his favorite dish.
The news, the news, the news
You call him to talk it through
But he’s not there
So you stare
At his ghost
With tears floating down.
*****
Years later
His clothes still folded
His things still standing
His ghost still lives.
You’ve made peace
And you talk about your complicated grief
Tell him about this and that
How you miss him
And wish him back.
*****
“I’ve moved on” you say
But you can’t and you won’t.
Decades fly by.
You still wait for him at the door.
A haunted life
Of tears and strife
Living with his ghost
That beckons you to join.
Death Positive
© 1885 Museum of Photographic Arts, Flickr | PD | via Wylio
The metanarrative that we’ve been fed
Is that it’s always bad when someone’s dead
That death is public enemy number one
And that there’s nothing good when life is done.
*****
It’s true that death hurts me and you
And it’s true that death can be tragic too
It’s true that grief will never leave
And it’s never good to be bereaved.
*****
But the idea that death is all bad is a lie
It’s hard to see but let me help you try;
When your eyes adjust at night you can find
That this is the time for the stars to shine.
*****
We’re used to the day so it’s hard to see
But death’ darkness has its own kind of beauty
It’s not glamorous and it’s certainly not glorious
But caring for our dead is never ever worthless.
*****
For in the dead we see our future and our past
We see very clearly that some things don’t last
It helps us remember what’s valuable and real
It helps us remember that love is our ideal.
*****
Death is the friendly reminder that life is short
And it reminds us to only pursue things of import
And when our eyes see our own setting sun
If we lived with death in mind, we’ll hear “well done”
