3:00 AM

For an explanation this poem was written years ago when I was on a medical leave from my work in hospice. Things turned out much better with me than anyone thought they would but I keep this poem because it reminds me of a woman I knew as colleague, co-survivor group member and then finally patient. She is one of the proofs that we don’t get what we deserve, we just get what we get. She was braver, better, stronger than I and had a lifetime of better habits;  I am merely very blessed and  still obviously breathing. 


3:00 AM

If I was still working there now,
I would be opening my last unopened chart
the one whose evening was noted in a dozen
red ink
one liners on the outlined nights report
and my eyes would struggle with the strong desire to close.
as I record the symptoms
and the remedies
Medicines results not real until a pen has set them onto paper.

But the work I do tonight is another kind of labour and so my eyes
fill wet and spill out the over flow of erupting magma darkness
my mind instead of cotton
fills with syrup sad and anger sweet
and fears
and tears are the
red lines that will vomit into other black charting

map of this uncharted place
a record on cyber journal page so I can digest
expose and maybe post
the darkest part of dawn
I sit and taste the almost moonless night
so once again life can turn into the light.

I am home here now at 3 AM,
my other home,
not the one you find centered on the pile of unpaid bills
but the couch where I have weathered a decade of my tears and fears
while the friend who stood beside me through it all
the marriages and lovers and not quite one night stands
and those others who I wisely did or did not give my heart;

upstairs with husband sleeps.

I wander her halls
up to the bathroom,
back into bed
one drink of water
and then two
fighting the inevitable fall into my heart
from the safety of my head.
another drink of water
an email check
as inevitable as toddlers sleep
the feelings come
and I curl in the safety of someone else’s couch
and weep;
clutching yet another toy
the child inside will bring alive
deep beneath my smile and laugh I dive.
but first just one more drink….
another bathroom trip.

In this place thats more than place

in this time thats more than time

Fear is first to walk along the path with me
She brings her sisters Loss and Greed
And hand in hand with little Ego they all stroll
All rhymy, mythlike skipping rythm droll
past the mirror

the mirror in the bathroom downs the knight bringing truth to bear on fancies flight

I am not six

My face wrinkled sagging grey stares back at me
no magic,
no nightlight hero staring back.
I look inside my mouth again at the thickened strawberry mark on my left cheek
will it burst out and show?

What other secrets will my next scan unmask?
Is it really just my fears and hates and selfishness
my unspent anger finding flesh,
the physics of the faithless broken child’s soul
family legacy manifest?

It is questions, I think
That haunt me most in this post witching hour.
The Great Unknown.
Questions and a nagging ache that has no words.

I have seen eyes like this before,

“I’m not really angry,”
she said,
“Not even really sad.”
She thinks a minute
I wisely wait not filling up the space
but allowing the vacuum of the silence to suck from her things she cannot face.
“Its not like pain, your medicine took care of that.”
I notice I still hold the now empty 1 cc syringe in paper in my fingers
to soon from her first dose for chemical relief but I don’t tell her that.
The paper crinkles tighter in the other hand, the one not holding hers.
“And I’m not afraid,” she kind of chuckles and snorts and cries all in the same expellation of breath,
we both pause all function while she wipes the pieces of bodily reality from betraying flesh.
“OK, I AM afraid,” she almost yells
as if some inquisitor tore secrets from her absent breast,
“but not of dying,
of making a fool of myself,
of peeing my bed,”
her voice now just a whisper
“of all this, this ugliness.”
The room quiet except for the machine extracting oxygen from air to feed in concentrated form to her tired lungs,
the tears start a silent river flood down that pragmatic nurses face,

“of seeing my husband so, so, so sad.”
sobs turn to something stronger,
” I’m not ready to die,”
she clutches my hand even tighter
body jerking with the movement of her mind
and I think of the four tiny fingers that two hours ago clutched tight to mine as I fed them their last bottle.

“That’s OK,”
I say, moving no closer,
not moving at all
a hug the surest way to scare away that wild burst of rankled grief
that unlanced will trouble every dying breath,
“Nobody is.”
A tiny part of me wants to meet her eyes and let her see
“I know!” it screams in mousy squeeks,
“Look at me, ” it wants to say in outside voice
“I know!”
but that’s a voice for therapy
Support group meetings
dogs and bears at 3 AM.
not patients,
for underneath
blue hot in the center of her life’s flickering flame
she is a nurse as well
and would find escape in comforting me.
This is her Rubicon,
not mine
and this woman that I midwife out of this mortal life

like me has held a hundred hands
and this moment is not
can not
“Nobody is ready.” I murmer back.

Are these the right words
I never know
Right or wrong
what I say really doesn’t seem to matter.
Its not about me and
Its the telling that the woman needs the most
the saying,
so what I do is sit and listen.
“I feel so bad,”
she says as the boil on her feelings burst
“I hate that its all about me all the time
I grow uglier to myself daily
and he tells me I’m beautiful,
I’m not beautiful,”

The damn inside broken she reaches out to me
and I sit on the edge of the bed
and hold her rocking back and forth
as she shakes and weeps.
“I can’t tell them,” she says,
“I can’t tell him,
but… I’m….. so……… tired” she gasps and tries to fight again,
“I love him, but I’m so tired ” confessional thorn torn from her
She doesn’t win, but storms spend themselves in time.
“It’s OK,” I murmur, “He knows you love him.
and we all get tired sometimes”
I rock her till she falls asleep
and lay her back on morphine’s pillowed lap.
The irony of phrasing is not lost on me,
I smile small as
I tuck a sheet here
adjust the light there
switch on the gentle lap of waves and native flute
and leave.

The years of weathered marriage reflecting another conversation
Her husbands sat rigid amidst the soft cushions
like he was esconced in a hardback confessional chair
It was the first night of my week
the night of his wife’s admittance.
We did not hug,
he and me,

that may or may not come later
depending on how long it takes for nature to work its final task
but I though then  “in time we will.”
That night he only looked at his hands,
“I can’t tell her,”
his voice broke as he fought for control and won, at least,
in this.
“I can’t tell her.”
He looked at me for forgiveness that he didn’t need.
“I love her so much, but I’m so tired.”
“Its Ok,” I said and touched ever so slightly his hands,
“Its OK to be tired, I can tell you love her.
We’re all tired sometimes”
He shook himself then
the emotions flying away like water off a retriever’s back
as he left his list of numbers and instructions and all business like and strong headed off to handle life’s overwhelming tasks.
I walk him to the door
both so silent,
he reaches
almost a hug;
the leaning in the most he yet could risk,
“I know you’ll take good care of her,
she’s everything to me.”

His voice a challenge, an order,
not plea,
not yet a trusting request.
He tucked a shirt tail here
Smoothed greying hair there
and left.

She cried as described

day two of that four day week

and died on my days off
that doorway the closest he and I would get
My charting said first night
“Support and education provided to spouse.”
and I checked the box “Grieving appropriate”
or however that paper I’ve filled out a hundred hundred’s time
diminishes the hurricane to pencil marks and numbers.
The second night same phrase of sorts,
“Education and support provided to patient,”
followed by my ten favorite words,
“Patient sleeping. No S/S of pain, nausea or respiratory distress”

Three AM darkness
has faded into 5 AM dawn. I will not return to work again, except perhaps myself as patient.
I take my teddy bear and hide away again the things I cannot face or say in a fetal curl.

If I was at work
I would be coming back awake with the rush of deskless shift end tasks.

But I am home
here at my friends
and dawn has come
and I know

I soon will sleep.


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