Intensive Care

after the pleasantries and subtleties

of chattering on about the weather,

needlework, craft shows, baby steps and diapers

after the small and idle

with such unremarkable enthusiasm for ourselves

and our excuses,

in the silence of fatigue and guilt

and mounting frustration,

we sink our teeth into buttered croissants, raspberry jam,

scrambled eggs, country ham,

and try to wash it all away

with Perrier

and several aspirin

*

inevitably

the waiter will remove the flatware and utensils

and so

soon

again

we stumble over words and phrases

and apologies

talking out of turn, talking over one another, talking about anything

except

death

the ugliness of its intrusion

*

during these lingering 72 hours

and for that matter

throughout the preceding decades

during which she smoked two packs a day

with indifference and enabled ignorance,

each of us has stood beside her,

counted on her,

and provided for her

during these trying end-stage years

*

now,

once again,

this morning,

without care for our own injustices

-our daily routines dismantled-

we assemble inside cold, sterile walls

and divest of jackets, cards and balloons, and swarm around her

to solemnly watch excruciation and desperation

slip

into ambivalence

*

we recognize our own shortcomings and reaffirm

the impotence of medical technology

and those countless missing chapters

*

she is fragile and tiny

trapped inside her suffocating body

and an eager generation’s choices --

she fills with fluids and fatigue

in exchange for vanity and vision

*

nothing except hospice care is new

not the discomfort,

nor the shortness of breath,

nor the fear coming to terms with her mortality,

which invariably reminds us of our own

*

her heart is weak and growing colder

she recognizes little, save agony,

an ageless companion she cares no longer to recount

*

her flecks of gold spin gray atop her bony head--

wintry white scalp, frosted by anxiety

her cracked skin, scaly checkerboard browns, yellows, and chalky grays

and so tiny is her dry mouth that

I love you

can no longer slip out

*

so failing is her testimony to life

that thoughts of her grand-babies can no longer

steer her

away

from thoughts of cessation

*

and so it is deliberated

and decided

and concluded

with few words--

just three unspeakable letters

*

as we adult-children

soothe ourselves with silence

and denial

and hope

for peaceful sleep

***

Copyright © 11/16/2004 by Christy Munson. All rights reserved.