To my Mother….

When I learnt that my mother had died I didn’t feel anything…..
I simply didn’t know who she was.

 

Memories of brief meetings are crystal clear
knowing who you were but not your purpose.
Unable to see you, I wave goodbye to the train
this episode was in fact our last farewell.

The child that I was didn’t fret at all
easily distracted and unaware of grief.
The youth that I became was hard to endure
unmindful of the scars that were forming.

The years flew by and I felt some bitterness
wrestling with despondency, struggling to prevail.
I prevent thoughts of you from entering my mind
It is too painful as I realise what I have missed.

I have yearned for something that cannot be
for the love that only a mother can give.
Deep within me I have a void that bears pain
this will remain as a reminder of what is.

I do not hate you, nor do I feel the need to know why
your reasons are yours; so who am I to judge.
It is a shame you were a stranger in life
and that same shame: a stranger in death.

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Dreams

I wait to pass into that blissful state
where thoughts knows no bounds?
The imagination no longer tethered
It allows me to laugh, cry, love and hate
without the constraints of guilt or consequence.
Relinquishing the daytime controls
the mind now commands the darkness.
My subconscious Jolts me from a nightmare
I feel no fear and await to be taken again.
The alarm invades the imagination
become part of; then cutting off the dream
Consciousness regains sovereignty.

Feel….

My heart beats slowly
I long for it waken
screaming that it is alive
to beat so fast as it starts
to emerge from its prison
bursting with pure joy
the pain will cut though me
but never actually hurt
I will sing the songs
my heart starts to play.

But I have no pain
nor do I feel
My heart beats slowly

January blues

Dark cold mornings that always confuse my mind
Is it night-time? Is it day-time? I simply can’t tell

Driving to work I see only the orange glow of street lights
nothing else exists than can lighten up my sensibility

I regain consciousness as the frozen air enters my lungs
each breath burns without managing to warm me up

My day is mirrored by the thick fog that refuses to lift
I function sporadically: the day passes slowly

The transition to darkness is unnoticeable
dropping in like a stone, falling from the dreary sky

The wispy cloud covered moon smiles down at me
I slam the door shut on another day, shivering: frost tomorrow.

Next……

“Do you have someone with you?” The consultant asked, without bothering to look at me. I sat for a minute, waiting to see if he would throw me a glance; he didn’t. I started to bite my lip, not to stop the tears, but to stop the sarcasm that was brewing below the surface. Ouch… I could taste the blood. “I have been allowed out on my own for quite some time now, providing I contact a responsible adult on the hour…..every hour.” Sarcasm won again – but he did look at me – and there was a hint – albeit a very small one – of a smile. “There is nothing else we can do for you.” he told me. Ok…. I only came in for a blood test. I got up to leave…. “Hold on, you don’t understand” he turned towards the nurse “this is why we like another person with them; they are more likely to listen.”

As it transpired, I wasn’t getting the “you’re not long for this earth” speech, but a “you’re in the lap of the gods” speech.  I was going to point out that if he was just a tad clearer, there wouldn’t be any need for a minder; I managed to resist the urge as I was still wondering what the hell he was on about.

Over the years I have made many visits to hospitals and GP surgeries and I assumed that the issues with listening lay firmly with me, as sometimes, even with the best of intentions, we as mere humans hear only what we want to hear. We easily accept  what the Doctor tells us is the be-all-and-end-all, never even thinking that they may in fact be wrong. They too are human and therefore not infallible. For goodness sake, I listen to people on a daily basis, and have sat through what seems like incessant courses on the subject. (The hardest part of those courses, was to actually listen and preferably stay awake) But I still kept quiet, even though I knew they were wrong.

The change came when after a dodgy episode, the Consultant told me off for not being on the correct tablets. Now I am aware of self-diagnosis but not of self-prescribing. An almighty row ensued, which I could have easily bled to death as I went into a strop, removed the drip from my hand and blood was pulsating out of a gaping hole, but my spontaneous witless act meant the argument was short-lived, replaced by the ruckus of trying to cap the well. From then on I was refered to by the consultant on his rounds, as “Ah, the lady with the episode.” Well at least he called me a lady. I did manage to have a few chats with him as I had been put in a side ward in case “I went off on one” again: my cannula was set in concrete.

So from that day I have made sure that I listen intently, ask questions, check on my understanding and on rare occasions even dare to make suggestions.

I will not just be a number: I am a person. No two of us are alike and what works for one, may not work for another. Don’t accept, follow your instinct and keep on until you get an answer; admittedly it may not be the answer you want or like, but eventually it should be the correct one.