Nursing Home (a poem)

Notice to my progeny: When the time comes, my answer should be easily inferred from even a casual reading of following.  (DNR; shoot me first!)

Nursing Home

by Paul Schlieben

She speaks to me

as if I were a petulant child she was putting to bed

too loudly, with imperious inflection --

and most maddening of all --

punctuating each sentence with “Dearie?” or “Hon?”

as if talking to an deaf imbecile.

And, as if I had a choice,

I’d answer, as surly as I could,

“yes, nursey”, “no, nursey,”

myself,

trying to gain the upper hand,

taking charge,

issuing orders of my own,

but, too weak to be heard,

and, literally, without the heart to pull it off,

and deep inside, to be honest,

only wanting to be looked after lovingly,

like a child,

held warmly, against a caring breast,

to be gently mothered, not nursed.

As she brings the spoon closer to my lips,

I half expect a singsong coaxing,

“here comes the airplane, dearie” or “open wide, hon”

to entice me to eat my oatmeal or applesauce.

At first, I tried to blow it back in her face,

but, unable to muster the breath

to cause so much as a flutter on the spoon,

I’d resign and eat,

bemused at my own peevishness.

Doctor says they are well-intentioned, these nurses;

that their efficiency is neither good nor bad,

their intention simply to get through the day

with as few diapers and soiled sheets as they can manage

and escape home without disrupting their routine,

and who can blame them?

Here, the measure of a good day

is one without a death,

a disruption from which we are all rarely spared.

No, their intentions are neither good nor particularly bad

and, upon reflection,

as sad witnesses to this endless procession of the inevitable,

who can blame them for quietly

whispering in the hall,

“I wish he would just get on with it”?

At first, from the moment they lifted me from the cab

into that blue vinyl and steel wheelchair,

prized for portability rather than comfort,

and wheeled me briskly past supermarket doors

that swooshed opened into that putty and green lobby,

I fought against the sudden assault on my dignity.

Not since boot camp, sixty years ago,

had I felt so autonomous, so undifferentiated,

so regimented – “Here I am,” I mused,

“fodder for this ‘cash cow of death’!”

It shocked me.

But now, the personality that

recoiled into its shell,

cautiously peers out,

with dawning comprehension. 

This, now, is the permanent state,

or as permanent as it can be at 88 --

more endgame, than state.

So I hunker down and tell myself,

“How many years can this stage last?

I’ve endured longer hardship

and humiliation in my time.”

So, gradually, I think --

exercising the only faculty left me --

and understand the true nature of this place.

Resigned, I simply do what I’m told,

or rather, not fight what’s done to me,

waiting quietly, hoping for the opportunity,

on a slow day, when the pace has slackened,

to ask quietly about a dad or mom,

a husband or child, a friend,

to glimpse what humanity lies

in the shade of this relentless efficiency,

to find a crack and gain purchase

on the well-defended souls entrusted with my care,

and engage Elma, Maria and Bethany,

so they, in turn, can acknowledge my humanity,

however fleetingly,

and we can become connected,

however tenuously,

so I won’t have to die alone.

© 2011 by Paul Schlieben