Hope on your face,
A friend in a scary place,
Light and fright,
The day and night...
An eternal sunny warning,
"You'll feel better in the morning",
As you mind and wash hair,
You are kind and you are there…
You understand my dignity,
You find a misplaced leech for me,
We rank the scales of pain,
While morphine keeps me sane...
Tissues for my issues,
The moments we misuse,
Good smelling, soothed swelling,
My Gallic rebelling...
We laugh, we are still strong,
What else could now go wrong?
You understand all this,
The me that I miss...
Once I had control,
Now I'm not quite whole,
'Though cross makes me vomit,
You've no offece from it.
With hourly obs',
I hold back the sobs,
I drink too much too,
The water runs through,
Reduced to an illness,
Your warmth, and the stillness...
I remember two very low points, and two amazing nurses.
One simply gave me a box of tissues and suggested I cry my way through the whole box.
The other nursed me through a week of leeches*, bringing aromatherapy and Swiss chic into my life (she also taught me that a bikini is softer on the skin than underwear, and makes you feel like a guilty secret!) we did laugh! She had nursed her mother, in her final days, the year before, and she was an angel…
There moped me up and brushed my hair -I hope they know I still remember how wonderful they were!
*No I wasn’t treated in the time of Henry VIII -24 hour leech therapy means that there were two at a time trying to keep the flesh on my chest alive (and they died for me!) -is that too much information?
© 6/2014 Ailsa Tims. All rights reserved.
