It creeps up on you, encroaching stealthily.
Imagine a leaf, which from a certain view
looks pristine, spiky, a healthy, waxy green;
but turn it and the damage can be seen:
the caterpillar's bite marks, yellowing hue
of half-moon fringes nibbled secretly.
Just so your heart beats on, and you go on,
walking, and cycling, laughing heartily.
You trust the pump that pushes life-blood round,
brings oxygen to muscles tirelessly,
and antibodies to embattled cells,
but cannot counteract its own downfall.
Like clotted cream on scones the fatty lumps
are blithely spread to clog the artery wall –
the watchmaker's precision movement stutters;
the marching band's no longer quite in step.
Breathlessly unaware you puzzle over
the tightening chest, the dizziness, the sweat.
And when these tiresome guests refuse to leave,
a nagging frown begins to form, a fear
that this could be a thing, a real thing,
a thing too threatening for you to ignore.
And just like that you have become a case.
You watch as others settle on your fate –
a diagnostic puzzle to be solved.
Triage, blood tests, ECG; you wait
for a bed; the harassed medics rush around
until you settle in the ward, and time
shifts. Seconds tick, tick. Minutes pass. You lie
and listen to the air-conditioning hum,
the beeps and blares, and try to guess what's wrong;
medics come to interrogate your pain,
and green electric ants depict your life
in trails of spikes and waves across a screen.
The body shelters from the sniper's shot
subdued; the mind, set free, can roam abroad
without the body's pestering, and learn
the gently efficient rhythms of the ward.
Morning's bustle: patients roused from sleep
for scheduled obs and cheery cups of tea;
the drug round with the pills in plastic cups;
the Tupperware-laden squeaking breakfast trolley;
bin-liners changed, floors mopped and tables wiped;
more obs, more tea, beds made and fresh bloods taken.
The ward, now cleansed from earthly sin, awaits
the robed consultant's gracious benediction,
with trailing acolytes nodding respectfully;
and when they've made their grave, important rounds,
'Anything from the trolley?' comes the cry,
and newspapers and sweets and coins change hands.
Lunch, functional, falls short of what you hoped
when filling in the card some hours ago.
Time shifts again. The morning's brisk allegro
gives way to afternoon's adagio,
punctuated by tea or nurses' calls.
You doze, or chat to family and friends;
then supper and the second drug round come:
more visitors, and then the day shift ends.
The ward's a different place at night. The squads
of students and their seniors dressed in blue,
of volunteers, technicians, orderlies,
have gone. Two older souls watch over you;
two nurses with the wisdom of the years,
exuding calm the eager students lack;
patrolling, coping, settling fretful minds,
safeguarding all their charges through the dark.
Your roaming mind considers: could there be
a nobler calling than to be a nurse?
'I am the Good Nurse. I lay down my life
for my patients; tend, through better or through worse,
their needs. Deal with commodes and urine flasks;
take blood, bring tea, and wash and shave
and care. I am Humanity defined;
forbearing, self-forgetting; I am Love.'
Jasmine, Gemma, Liza, as I depart,
my heartfelt thanks: the thanks of my whole heart.
