Friday, August 7, 2009

Summer Darkness

Better Forget
by Mary E. Gerdt
all rights reserved

Hot and sticky.
The weather had finally changed from the bitter cold to now the unbearable heat.
How are we to continue to tolerate this misery?
My sweat stung my eyes as I looked to the far horizon. I shook my head to refocus.
No sign.
I look in the opposite direction.
Don’t think about thirst. Those thoughts would not leave me alone.

Sometimes sharp. Sometimes dull.
Sometimes pleasurable in a sick sort of way.
Pain better than thirst.

Were they real?
Are they friendly?
They are too far away to tell.
My voice will not respond.
I am so parched.
A little squeak.
Smaller than a mouse cry.
Smaller than a mosquito buzz.
Surely they cannot hear me.

Are they real? Is that the sun? Or some delusions.
They hurt my eyes but I want to stare at them.
They have rings around them. Halos.
Am I dead yet?

How can I be dizzy lying down?
I feel I am floating but this hard ground reminds me I am on the desert floor.
A sore nags at my back side. Pain again. Stinging.

I feel I am rushing here and there. Flying in a way.
No pain for a minute.
Flashes and needles and little noises.
Beeping noises like a smoke alarm.
Loud then soft.
Soft then loud.

How could I sleep when I am dying?
Wasting living time.
Why not when it hurts so much to be awake?

I can’t move.
Something must be broken.
Pains here, then there, then gone again.
If I could raise an arm I could call the voices over to help.

I feel tears drop like rain. Little sad voices overhead. Is that an angel?
Pain then none.
Let me go.

Remember when I was alive and well and fighting the battles of life.
Remember when I smiled and laughed and cried and wondered.
When we loved and were loved and lost and gained.

Those days in ICU when my parched bloated body looked horrible.
When you saw my pain in grimaces and questioning looks.
“Why me?”
When you wondered if I had pain, was dizzy, could I cry?
Yes, but forget those days.
Better you forget.

notes: This poem refers to my projection of what an ICU patient experiences after 8+ years as an ICU nurse observing all forms of illness, delirium, end of life. There has been much MS Blogger activity discussing end of life issues. This poem is one of my imaginary ends.
Not good nor bad, I guess it is some of both.mary

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