I couldn't bear for you to be cold

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I can't believe it's really you
in this hospital bed
in intensive care,
eyes closed
and oh so still;
a machine breathing for you
and a geometric pattern
in neon colours jerking and stuttering
and sliding across a screen,
monitoring your heart rate.

A sweet-faced nurse in uniform blues
attends to your unconscious needs
with Zen-like calm, whilst I am helpless,
sterilised, uncomfortable in my white
plastic apron, thinking it should be me;
I am twenty years older than you.

I am remembering the new baby you
utterly dependent and vulnerable
like now, yet not like now.
Was there ever such a happy time,
the happiness of not knowing
beyond the moment.

I touch your bare shoulder,
whisper your name
but you do not react.
Your little sister bends over you,
shiny-eyed, telling you she loves you.

Have your excesses finally done for you
at your third attempt, ironically
the one you never meant?
Dying is an art, Plath said
and she should know,
she had plenty of practice too.
You even tried it her way once
but typically you couldn't work the oven.

You look so peaceful, almost content,
something you never normally do,
and all the time your swollen body
rises and falls in rythm with
the thud and grind of the ventilator.
The corner of your mouth droops
with the weight of the coiled tube.
You would so hate that look.
I imagine the umbilical chord re-growing,
re-attaching itself, so that if I stay here
with you, I can keep you alive.

The doctor arrives with
his stream of acolytes,
all eyes obediently focussed on you,
the exhibit.
He is matter-of-fact, pleasant even
but his language stark.
I hear snatches of words -
electrolytes
sodium levels
psychotic episode
seizure
breathing difficulties, and
We had to sit on her to restrain her.

He sees my expression then
and explains with a wry smile,
`Yes we had to, she was quite bonkers'.
Now that hurts. I have never called you that.
`She's stable now though', he tells us,
`so we'll try waking her in forty-eight hours
and then we'll see.'
See what exactly?
I am too scared to ask.

Come back tomorrow,
the Zen nurse says gently.
But how can I leave when
I am your life support;
not that machine.
But she insists.
Goodbye see you later,
we say like normal,
to the replicate you,
whose face is not your face,
and all the paraphernalia
that for now is part of you.

Your sister is crying but I am numb.
We stop at the hospital cafe
for a soupy-grey coffee
stone-cold with skin on top
and an inedible cardboard sandwich.
We have shed the aprons
and with hands raw from washing,
don hats, scarves and gloves.

Outside an Arctic blast hits us.
Our breath steams up the car windows,
freezing rain spits onto the windscreen.
The weather may be terrible outside
but at least you are warm in bed.
I couldn't bear for you to be cold.
I couldn't bear that at all.

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Comments

insertponceyfre... | December 6, 2010 - 20:37

this is breathtakingly sad seashore

seashore | December 6, 2010 - 23:10

This was really hard to write as it's true, new and raw but I really wanted the writing to do it justice - hence loads of drafts. Daughter out of hospital and so far so good.

Thanks for the cherry, it's a very special one to me.

insertponceyfre... | December 6, 2010 - 23:49

I think you've done it more than justice seashore, and I'm so pleased she's out of hospital

seashore | December 6, 2010 - 23:52

Thanks so much, insert.

celticman | December 7, 2010 - 01:21

clean stark beauty from the inside-out, a word spell of loss and grieving.

SundaysChild | December 7, 2010 - 02:12

Incredible piece. My best wishes to you xx

seashore | December 7, 2010 - 09:40

Thank you celticman and SundaysChild for reading this and leaving comments that make me feel writing generally, and this piece in particular which just had to be written, is worth all the effort. x

Silver Spun Sand | December 7, 2010 - 09:56

I applaud your bravery in writing this, Seashore and am so pleased your daughter is OK.

Geoffrey | December 7, 2010 - 10:49

Congratulations on the cherry sounds a bit feeble after living through that piece with you. I'm still crying my eyes out! Lots of love Geoff.

seashore | December 7, 2010 - 11:05

Thank you for that Silver Spun Sand, actually it's been quite cathartic writing this if a little exhausting...

Geoff, I'm sorry - I knew it would render you damp-eyed but I couldn't have explained it by our usual channels of communication. x

shoe | December 7, 2010 - 13:41

I read this last night but was unable to think of anything appropriate to say, now it's all been said for me...brave and skillfully done.

seashore | December 7, 2010 - 17:07

Thank you, shoe. I thought about putting something in the taster box when I posted it to the effect that it was really the IP that gave me the spur to do this piece, then I thought it wasn't really an IP and regardless of the personal nature of the content, the most important thing for me was to have it judged on its own merit - purely as a piece of writing. Had I not had the cherry or any feedback I wouldn't have said anything...or may well have deleted it!

The challenge was to create something positive out of a difficult siuation and after a while you can be more objective and concentrate on the process of writing. When I got a bit stuck at one point I came across a quote by Ted Hughes `all poetry comes from the inner wound' which makes sense to me.

Sorry to go on....but there are other things in the past I regret not writing about and have been unable to reach that place again in order to do it successfully, if you see what I mean.

Again thanks to all who commented and felt it was successful in writing terms.

Phew.....

fatboy74 | December 8, 2010 - 15:02

Sorry to come late Seashore but this is really good and very much deserving that cherry. :-)

tcook | December 8, 2010 - 15:30

This is just superb. I'm in the midst of flu and this just made me weep. I wish you all the very best.

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seashore | December 8, 2010 - 18:20

fatboy, thank you so much for your comment - I really appreciate it.

Tony - I'm sorry you have flu and I made you weep but thanks so much for the compliment. It means a ot to be pick of the day. Get well soon!

seashore | December 8, 2010 - 18:21

fatboy, thank you so much for your comment - I really appreciate it.

Tony - I'm sorry you have flu and I made you weep but thanks so much for the compliment. It means a lot to be pick of the day. Get well soon!

owlybynight | December 8, 2010 - 21:25

Stunning piece of work, seashore! I have a friend who's daughter is going through a challenging time too. Add my tears to the communal pool!
Brilliant!

seashore | December 8, 2010 - 23:38

So glad you felt it worked, owlybynight. It did help to write about it and I hope your friend has an outlet of some kind during a difficult time. We are certainly not alone that's for sure. Thanks for reading and commenting.

Apologies for turning on quite a few taps!

sue dinum | December 8, 2010 - 23:42

This is very moving, seashore, and even more so knowing that this is factual, so my thoughts are with you and your daughter. Don't know the circumstances, but so pleased she is out now and hopefully back home with you. Very well-written by the way, your descriptions of the mechanics and movements of the life support machine and the tubes and drips etc were absolutely brilliant, and the room/ward where she was is sharply painted. The title is lovely too. I guess when something like this is so close to home it's either very easy to write or extremely difficult. Whatever, you have put the concern and pain you must have been feeling across very well. I wanted to hold your hand.

Congrats on the cherries too.

Best Wishes

sue

seashore | December 9, 2010 - 10:12

Bless you, sue. Bit of both really - I mean easy and difficult at varying times if that makes any sense! The worst bit was having just about finished it, I kept fiddling with it (mind you I tend do that with writing anyway) and eventually just had to steel myself to post it.

I really appreciate everything you've said so a big thank you.

kheldar | December 12, 2010 - 21:51

Superb, simply superb.

:--)

seashore | December 12, 2010 - 23:28

That means a lot, kheldar. Thank you very much.