Sick
Room
July
10 2020
The
sick room smells of stale air
and
bitter pills
and
a fruit basket spoiling,
the
strong bleach
of
hospital sheets
that
may have gotten soiled.
Of
foul breath
with
the fetid scent
of
a bad liver failing.
Of
corrupted lungs
a
coated tongue
and
a body slowly wasting.
And
still
the
unmistakable funk
of
old man smell
that
persists no matter what.
Instead
of big windows and fresh air
there
are overhead fluorescents
one
small anemic vent.
Where
it's consistently over-heated
and
disagreeably dry.
Although
not so much for the dying,
who
are always so chilled to the bone
they
feel they'll never get warm.
So
when the cool bloodless body
is
wheeled discreetly out
then
quickly whisked away
will
the stench of death remain?
Despite
the freshly made bed
and
sharp chemical scent
of
hospital disinfectant?
For
us, it will forever be there.
Because
we can't forget the death bed
and
the room we spent so much time.
The
final strained breath
and
the last words of the dying,
then
that brief moment of silence
suspended
in the air.
As
if that momentary pause
was
composed of its own small molecules,
a
long relieved breath
we
could all deeply inhale.
My dog
is very sick, and this elicits thoughts of death. Which was the last
subject I set out to tackle. I just felt the need to write –
something, anything – to get some momentary distance from my
distress.
As I
often do, I look for inspiration in others' poems, and so turned to
the Poetry Foundation website. Under “Collections”, the
highlighted item was – most coincidentally -- “Poetry of
Sickness, Illness, and Recovery.” There was a Billy Collins poem
among the selections: Sick Room. Which struck me, under the
circumstances, as an idea as good as any – despite my reservations
– I might riff on. This poem is the result.
I think the final two lines are particularly telling. Because while this natural response might elicit feelings of guilt, it's perfectly understandable: we are bereaved when someone close to us dies, but also relieved that they have been released from their suffering. And especially with something like dementia, when the person we know them to be effectively died well before their actual death.
I think the final two lines are particularly telling. Because while this natural response might elicit feelings of guilt, it's perfectly understandable: we are bereaved when someone close to us dies, but also relieved that they have been released from their suffering. And especially with something like dementia, when the person we know them to be effectively died well before their actual death.
Here's a
link to the Billy Collins piece:
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