Let's be on the safe side.
Last time you got dry heaves
You ended up in hospital --
A spoke stuck in your arm,
A bag of stuff adribble.
This time's no sweat.
I know the parking to a tee.
But now they say you have a temperature --
One hundred one point nine.
Come back tomorrow.
She'll be fine.
I fumble down the hill
I feed the dog
I hit the hay
And fall asleep just wondering
What the hell is going on.
I'll cut this short:
It's day thirteen and lots of things have happened.
Double pneumonia, septic shock --
She's intubated, all IVs enter her body
By way of tube in her carotid.
Days later all things regulate
Her lungs can breathe without an aid.
She's still involved in huge IVs.
With open eyes she recognizes me.
But why can't she begin to understand
She can't get up and walk around.
She's ventilated fore and aft
With tubes that rule the bathroom out.
I hold her hand through cries of pain
My son holds to the other.
And now at home we fall abed,
Exhausted from our tribulation.
"She's coming back," the doctors say,
And then they wander off to check
The numbers of a dozen others.