Writer's Block - 0 ; Me - 1

Lately I had been inspired to write a poem. As usual, quite a few of the lines came to me so naturally it was almost as if the poem was writing itself. In high school and college there were countless times when I had a writing assignment of sorts and found myself frustrated and struggling with writer's block. Yet whenever I write poems I never really seemed to have that problem, until now.

This poem was constructed backwards. First came the ending lines, and then came the beginning. For whatever reason though, the two segments didn't flow together. There was no connecting thought process, which quite frankly defeats the whole purpose of writing in the first place.

Luckily Sabbath was quiet and inspirational, and since I was already leaning towards feeling rather meloncholy, it took very little effort for me to be able to finish. Hopefully you'll like it as much as I do:

Her Mother's Daughter

"Do as I say, and not as I do."
Became the indoctrination of her childhood.
Her life's path predestined
As a result of her blood line.
She was cursed to repeat these misdoings.
Fear of ridicule
Taught her to resist temptation.
Drawing lines in the sand
Of an already barren love life,
She admired from afar,
Looking but never touching,
Battling against learned behaviors and
Setting boundaries so as not to
Become her mother's daughter.

Don't Take It Personally!

I've always had the tendency to take things personally, even when someone's actions or words weren't directed specifically at me. I like to think this helps me to maintain a certain degree of sensitivity. Yet there have been occasions where I've allowed myself to get overly involved, and ultimately found myself nursing bruised feelings in response to someone's behavior. Just this last week I encountered a patient's spouse who left me both disgruntled toward the ideals of marriage, and really quite brokenhearted on behalf of the patient.

The patient had quite an extensive medical history, but remained quite spry for someone pushing 90 years old. Unfortunately she was one of 2 patients on my hallway that had an ileosotomy after suffering for years with Crohn's disease. Most simply put an ileosotomy is when a portion of the intestines is brought to the surface of the abdomen and sutured in place. The patient then wears a bag over the site to catch the waste. Essentially this is how the person uses the bathroom. It's quite awful really. I always feel some extra sympathy for those poor souls who have to live with one. Yet this particular patient wasn't going to let it get her down. She was still just as pleasant as the next person.

Of course my ultimate fear came true when she called me into the room and said that she thought her bag had come loose from her abdomen. After cleaning her up we began to strategize what to do next. She tried to explain that there was something specific that needed to be done before a new bag was put on. As she tried to explain it to me we both became more and more confused. She then sighed and told me that her husband was a whiz at changing her bag and he would know what needed to be done. She continued to gush over her spouse and how great he was about taking care of her and how quickly he learned what to do. I insisted that I could do the job just fine, but she seemed nervous enough that I figured I'd just let her husband come and take care of the situation since he was so experienced, and she assured me that he wouldn't mind. Thus I dialed the phone and handed her the receiver. Before leaving the room I instructed her to call me when he arrived so I could better understand what she had previously been trying to tell me.

15 minutes had passed when I received a page that the patient's spouse was at the bedside and was waiting for me to come into the room. Upon entering the room it was clear that the tone of the atmosphere had drastically changed. An elderly man, with strangly youthful hands, and a plaid shirt shuffled around the room without even addressing the patient. As he gathered the supplies I offered my assistance and explained to him that his wife was more comfortable having him care for her. He then replied by saying, "Well this sure as hell isn't my job." He never looked up. He just continued with his "job."

I glanced over at the patient who immediately began making excuses for both his foul mood and rude comment. She seemed nervous and injured by his words. Yet she was right to brag about how quickly he took to learning the entire process. In no time she was fitted with a new bag, the mess was cleaned up, and she was ready to settle in for the night. I later found out, by the husband's own admittance, that when we called to request his assistance he was in fact sitting at a bar, having a drink. This of course really lit my fire, not to mention the fact that he considered caring for his wife a "job."

In the 3 days that I had been caring for her he never once came to visit, and yet it was far too much of a burden for him to come and do something for her that he was really quite skilled at in the first place. The patient had already told me that she would have done it herself except her vision was bad and she couldn't see what she was doing. I would've gladly done it myself, except under the bag adhesive she had developed a small wound which needed specific care. This, of course, was what she was trying to describe to me but was far too upset at the time to come across clearly.

I cried for 2 days after that. Just thinking about what he said sent me into a fury of tears. After close to 50 years of marriage he saw her as a job, something that was required of himself. But even more then that was how he treated her to her face. All the while she never had a single ill thing to say about him, and continued to sing his praise. I would've mustered up all the strength left in my frail, sickly body and punched him dead in the face had he talked to me like that. Then I would have taken off my wedding band and thrown it at him. All that, and for what? One lousy drink!

It never ceases to amaze me how different love grows between people. Many months ago I cared for an elderly man who was admitted with confusion. He fretted so about the idea of losing his memory, and thus I found him reciting poetry. He said it was "exercise" for his brain. After I admitted that I too was a poet, he asked if I wanted to hear some of his work. To my delight he repeated, word for word, a beautiful poem that he had written for his wife relating when they had first got married. He didn't so much as even stumble over one syllable. He still loved her as if he had first laid eyes on her. She was his everything. I had to sit down by his bedside and cry. It was so refreshing to see someone who didn't let time change his feelings. Time had no bearing on their relationship.

Yet the realist in me knows that it's not always like that. People change. Sometimes for good, and sometimes for bad. I can't help but feel that I'd rather be alone for the rest of my life then to grow old with someone only to learn that I've become an obligation to them, a "job." Needless to say, now that I'm done crying I'm left with quite a bit of uncertainty.