MOVE ME POETRY — A POETRY COMMUNITY LIKE NO OTHER
The Shadows Of Change
There is silence
and there is a cacophony
of unbearable noise
a dichotomy
competing forms of pain
“please breathe
please speak”
please stop all these alarms
all this electronic panic
frantic reactions
all focus on the machines
while the man at the centre
lies almost disregarded
merely the source
the origin of the noise
the creator of the beeps
the bells
the painful calls to arms
the troops descend
all their weapons at the ready
for whatever battle
whatever foe
has raised itself before us
the heroes of the moment
the nurses and doctors
who navigate this nightmare
who sail these rough seas
over and over
the neurosurgeon
his unenviable position
how hard the task
to have to tell a man
“I fear that this will end your life”
not even sure that his dire words
are even heard
and then
to turn to the daughter
who is waiting outside
to allow her father
the dignity
of a private discussion
with his physician
and repeat these words
to show her the scans
that reveal the injuries
that they say cannot be countered
and those words
“he cannot come back from this”
to know
to feel
the reaction this will generate
the daughter
standing
trying to remain composed
trying to respond
in a level voice
only to reply
through the surgical mask
barely able to be understood
“I’m so sorry…
I think I am soiling my mask”
the doctor hands her tissues
and a fresh mask
places an arm
around her shoulder
and says nothing
all the sounds
that were so painful
and constant
in all the hours
before this news
have faded away
the world
now consists
of only this moment
an eerie silence
“Is it real?
Where am I?
Am I still here?”
I am the daughter
I can barely see
through unstoppable tears
I look beyond the doctor
into the room behind him
I see my father
my father
in that room
in the midst of all that noise
a peaceful
placid
person
who seems to be resting
unaware
of his apparent destination
non responsive
non responsive
not gone
but not here either
all the machines
no longer supporting him
yet their voices are still painful
and all the tubes
serpent-like
they are everywhere
their purpose
not being fulfilled
now just an added burden
for the man in the centre of all of this
peace is what he now craves
an escape from all of this
a place to rest
until the future path is revealed
for none of this
is anything but torture
for his exhausted body
and his tired mind
non responsive
non responsive
one machine
one instrument
one tube at a time
my father is slowly restored
to a semblance of peace
his chest still rises
his chest still falls
the only discernible movement
the only sign of life
non responsive
non responsive
we are in a new room now
private and silent
no machines
no tubes
just a clock on the wall
endlessly ticking
the ‘end of life room’
from which there is no return
and so I remain here with him
every second, every minute, every hour, of every day
non responsive
non responsive
much care is shown
but no practical actions
no treatment
just waiting
waiting for time
waiting for time and my father
to draw the line
48 hours
feels like 48 years
and then his eyes open
just a little
his mouth is moving
my hand on his shoulder
“Dad? Are you awake?”
a croaky response
“I am hungry….”
my hand pressed hard on the call bell
not taking my eyes from his
the recent silence
now becomes a rising wave
of running feet and many voices
a stunned crowd
unsure of what they are seeing
an unexpected reversal
the wheels start turning again
the return of the tubes
the beeps, the beeps, the beeps
but he is breathing
he can speak
he can hear me
he is drifting in and out
each awakening
is day one
no recollection of yesterday
or even half an hour ago
for him, every wakening is the first
he does not recall what went before
this is something I am grateful for
but now I am in a new dimension
where I am the repository
of my father’s memories
where over and over
I tell him what happened yesterday
sometimes what happened today
and we chat
until he sleeps
these conversations
are everything
his wry humour
his insights into many topics
all still accessible to him
he can sit up now
and eats a meal mostly by himself
I help with opening things
encouraging him to drink
the liquids that he does not like
but his body needs
I comment to my siblings
that being our father’s mother
is a tough job
a balancing act
that there are no instructions for
the shadows of change weigh heavily
time circles me in endless revolutions
unable to be measured
unable to be experienced
unable to be grasped
to be held or even to feel a part of
each breath is both a moment and an hour
repetition has infiltrated everything
stepping in and out of the wishing glass
so many times
that time
no longer has meaning
nothing moves
nothing changes
not even me
I feel frozen in place
yet the world flies by at a wicked pace
the revolutions around the sun
the shifts from day to night
viewed through a camera lens
the shutter running on autopilot
the clicking
an almost constant raucous sound
disconcerting
as everything keeps getting further away
only to rush past again in mere seconds
voices and faces
all seem both familiar and strange
I am forgetting things
that I don’t even know that I knew
then recalling things
I did not know I forgot
it’s groundhog day
sliding doors
I am and I am not
I can and I cannot
control is as distant as the stars
a concept that is fading
fading into the background
leaving no signs that it was ever there
surrender is not an option
not a choice
it is a lifeline
go with the flow
ride the waves
whether they be large or small
I am washed up
on the sands of time
over and over
disoriented
exhausted
beyond comprehension
but I step into the ocean once more
where everything echoes
from far away
and my every step
feels like concrete
holds me in place
I hear myself
repeating myself
trying to build back
what was lost in the void
that was my absence
when I now briefly return home to sleep
each day
starting again
from the beginning
my daily words to my father
repeating assurances
highlighting progress
that even the smallest of steps
are an eon away from death
death
where this journey began
where this miracle began
“you left
and you returned
I know you don’t feel like you
but you are
you are you
and we are together here
in this mysterious place
where you were taken from us
where you told me
that you looked down
upon yourself
and heard everything
despite your body
being unable to support you
you did not know it was you at first
but you told me
that when you realised
that man was you
you returned to the bed
you were you then too
and it was you
that took yourself back to you
now the long journey home
is before you
I will be here
every step
every single step
this is not a journey
that you will take alone
whatever destination that you choose
I will be with you
to take you home
to whichever home your heart seeks”
© Ann Bagnall
Note: This is an unusual write for me. This is an update for my dear friends in Move Me Poetry and the poetry community, who are aware of my father’s situation and who have been sending much love in our direction. It is not really a poem, but a way for me to convey where things are at that my brain can deal with at this time. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for all of your kind thoughts. I will be forever grateful for the love.
