He’s sick again.
It’s a major production
getting him to the doctor’s office.
Dressing a paraplegic,
loading the wheelchair,
strapping it down in the van.
Leaving an hour early, just in case.
Always prepared,
I take along a packed bag,
half for him, half for me.
Because you just never know.
His wheelchair is large,
and with the recline of the back
it maneuvers like a semi-truck,
taking up half the elevator.
So, we wait for an empty one.
Juggling the bag, the wheelchair,
the oxygen, the umbrella,
catching his blanket before
it hits the ground,
I pull open the door.
The waiting room,
the size of a stamp,
is full of sick people,
all waiting their turn.
And there is no room for us.
Navigating the narrow hallway,
taking the turns slowly,
creeping along, dodging techs
and their rolling machines.
They place us in the largest exam room.
The door won’t shut
with the chair in the way.
They ask if I can move him
onto the table, but we need a lift,
and they don’t have one.
So, this exam is done
fully clothed,
door wide open,
while he sits in his chair,
and people walk by.
As the doctor leaves,
I whisper, “I’m sorry,”
and the tears start to fall.
He says, “It’s not your fault.”
I squeeze his weakening hand.
We’re off to the hospital again.
And I worry that this visit
will end with the words,
“There’s nothing we can do.”
What if this time we say
our final goodbyes?
And I walk out the door, a widow.
18 thoughts on “Chronic Illness”
Wonderful poem, Paula! I’m delighted to see it here… with those powerful lines leading to the last whammy of an ending. Brilliantly heartbreaking and true. Thank you!
Thank you, Jan.
You made me cry today. Which is no small feat. I don’t cry easily anymore. It’s been 18 months yesterday since my wife of 28 years passed. She had RPD, rapidly progressive dementia, with no known cause. I was 6 months into caring for her full time before her neurologist gave up trying to find the cause. We had run every test, explored every possibility know to modern medicine. We failed. I failed. I had been a Hospital Corpsman in the Navy when we met, and I felt that my medical background should have equipped me to be a better advocate, to wring answers out of the system. But at the end of that path, there were no answers. Just the inevitable conclusion that she was dying, and that there was nothing we could do to treat her, much less cure her. I was crushed, and at the same time angry that there was no further hope, no plan of action to pursue that would channel my energy, my desperation, my love for her. I was beaten, and it felt like it. I began mourning her then, and continued to do so for the next six months, retreating to the basement so our two disabled sons could not hear me sobbing. If they heard me cry, they would have a meltdown.
I’m sorry for this verbose outpouring. I just want you to know that what you wrote was on target. Grief sometimes starts with the anticipation of separation from one’s adored partner in life. Someone wrote that grief is just love continuing after being separated by death. It’s true.
I’m so sorry for your loss. And thank you for your kind words.
Such a gripping piece. Thank you for sharing. Indeed, many/most offices are poorly arranged for the needs of many disabled patients, and the violation of your husband’s privacy is the worst of all. Such an important piece to read.
Thank you so much!
I was a caregiver to both my parents. As you stated, those years were both the most difficult and blessed ones of my life. I am grateful I could be there for my mom and dad, despite the challenges each day presented.
Yes. I would do it all again just to be with him.
Heartbreaking. No one knows how really hard caregiving is until they have done it. Thank you for sharing part of your story here. Blessings on you and your children.
Thank you so much.
Powerful illuminating poem! Caregiver’s perspective is so often not fully appreciated. Thanks for sharing important perspective!
Thank you.
Beautiful piece; thank you for sharing
Thank you for taking time to read it. 🙂
Thank you Paula. You captured this so beautifully. “He’s sick again.”
Thank you, Cindy.
Beautiful. Thank you so much for sharing this window into your life as caretaker for a loved one.
Thank you, Rachel.