You never know what you are capable of
until you help your husband on and off the bedside commode
because he's too weak to walk the five steps to the bathroom.
Hold the bedpan for him.
Flush the used toilet paper when he's done.
You never knew.
Wash your hands and go on.
This is all an exchange of fluids:
mother's milk,
marriage ceremonies end on a note of saliva,
childhood friends rub the oozing skin under their scabs together,
declaring fraternity for all time,
embalming fluid enters the body's chambers.
The nurses call transfusions “hanging blood.”
If I weren't already struck by the power of fluids
I'd be bowled over by that naked terminology.
Nothing can prepare you for the sight of those bags.
You know blood is red. You know.
But the spots left on the cotton balls in phlebotomists' wake
only hint.
Valentine's Day red,
Valentine's Day masscare red.
The sight of them hypnotizes you,
that red sings its way through the no-color
meant-to-be-soothing taupes and mints and lilacs
of the hospital wards, that dreamlike way it mixes,
swirling and diffusing through the clear liquid in the tubes,
the tubes themselves,
before entering the veins of the man
I am bound to.
The orderlies bring bowls of broth.
There are sponge baths and oils,
no ritual gone from the act
of banishing the unclean.
At night, I will unroll the cot next to your bed
where I will dream of the clinic across town where donors whisper,
“This is the cup of my blood,” before they lie back
and sip juice.
Author notes
Unedited. Maybe two poems here.
How can I improve this?
Comments
1 - 10 of 10
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I actually don't really know what to say but Wow! That's an understatement. This poem really hit me hard and resurrected some intense memories. I'm sorry you have to go through all this. I'm assuming this is based on a life experience and if it's not then your great at portraying one but I can tell by the passion in this piece that it is a real life experience. "before entering the veins of the man/I am bound to" this was a great, simple couple of lines.
The last stanza really struck me as a powerful conclusion. I took it as a positive ending in a way because without those donors transmitting fluid from themselves, life would not be possible for many including myself at one point as well as my sister at another.
Donating blood is more spiritually empowering than it may seem. It was also an intense contrast between the pain, experienced in the hospital as opposed to a simple needle prick in a clinic as you sip juice and eat cookies after.
Every line of this poem was incredibly powerful. Thank you for writing this piece. Whether the events are true or not my prayers are with you.
Thank you,
Richard -
First of all I am so very sorry for all you have been through to write this powerful and expressive work. This should hang in the nurses station of every hospital on surgery wards.
I believe you have two poems.
The nurses call transfusions “hanging blood.”
This is the beginning of the second poem or canto if it is only one.
"As if I weren't already struck by the power of fluids,"
Do you need the word "as"?
"The orderlies bring bowls of broth.
There are sponge baths and oils,
no ritual gone from the act
of banishing the unclean."
This verse feels like it is the beginning of another poem or canto of the first.
"At night, I will unroll the cot next to your bed
where I will dream of the clinic across town where donors whisper,
“This is the cup of my blood,” before they lie back
and sip juice."
This is my favorite as you tie more fluids into the mix and hint at the religious sacrifice of giving blood to save another.
This is really beautiful work. I feel privileged to read your work.language: 5, rhythm: 4, subject: 5, tone: 5, form: 4.
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hey pie
this is absolutely one for the ages. if this was your only poem I'd rate you as a great poet on this alone. i used to think it a dumb cliche that art is born of suffering, but this is a good example of how thats true. I can't make any specific comments that wouldn't do this justice.
dave -
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Thanks, Dave. I agree, it is a cliche. On the other hand, what else are we going to do with suffering? Lord knows, there will always be plenty of it.
Lauren
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Really good poem, and also good how you didn't go into the sexual connotations of fluids despite discussing your husband. I think you implied it well enough. I give blood so I'm fairly used to the sight of the bags, I liked how you described them though personally I found it quite elaborate for something I find so ordinary! I also know a lot of nurses so it's strange to hear it being discussed in such an emotive fashion, I particularly liked the first stanza, and how you portrayed the frailty of man when he's diseased.
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That was really good! this stanza:
Valentine's Day red,
Valentine's Day masscare red.
The sight of them hypnotizes you,
that red sings its way through the no-color
meant-to-be-soothing taupes and mints and lilacs
of the hospital wards, that dreamlike way it mixes,
swirling and diffusing through the clear liquid in the tubes,
the tubes themselves,
before entering the veins of the man
I am bound to.
almost hypnotized me lol I was reading it like whoa...
hehehe
Great write. Very sad.
-Krista
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Scarlet Swirl.
Swimming in the pain of a loved ones debilitation is seeringly (yet somehow soothingly?!) described here, Celestial.
The fluid nature of the differing stanzas mirror the epicentre of the juice-of-the-vein tubular apparatus running through your depiction and the thoughts arising thereof.
The crimson tinged alembic of emotion fermenting with broth, oils and plasma serves to draw the reader in to the dignified yet frankly reflective way in which you care for your husband.
"before entering the veins of the man
I am bound to."
Tethered and bound by veins meandering from a mutual corazon of spousal love. Poetic image to be sure, Lauren.
May I echo Al and wish the best of health and fortitude to thee and thine, Pie.
Warmest regards
gG
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Yes CP, that's how it is.
Having just spent Christmas in a cardiac unit, with more canulas than veins, I relived every painful line you wrote.
And yes, my wife too has "been there done that" thru many years of my cancer and attendant woes.And all those doners with our shared rare type, they indeed may whisper redemption to me who drank so deeply of their gift.
[And at the moment I attend her as she mends from an op]
These are the hidden things we take on when we say "I do"; and because love is an act of will, and not of hormones [despite what Hollywood proclaims]we enter in to all the pain with our spouse because we are one flesh. And though I would not have us each wounded or broken, I would not pass such times by.
Your bloke is very blessed. [But don't tell him so!]
As always, your poem is "homespun", plain and tightly woven, a labour of love. No, I don't think it is two poems. But don't start an edit for some time, I suggest.
Hug and a prayer.
JG
PS [The sites of my canulas actually ached as I read the poem!]
language: 5, rhythm: 4, subject: 5, tone: 5, form: 2.
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Hey, Pie...
I really felt this. Only it was me on the receiving end of what you describe here years ago. I remember the ethereal air that saturates ones thoughts with fear of the unknown as you sit waiting and watching and hoping for positive developments. My wife had to do the same things for me and I did get a little choked up as I reflected back on the worry that so rested on her brow at those times, and your words helped me in retrospect to understand just what it was that she was going through as well. I really liked this, pie. Your writes always evoke emotion from deep within the gut and heart and that is a talent. Thanks for sharing, pie.
If you have a minute and are comfortable so doing, please shoot me an IM as to how Patrick is doing as I keep you both in my thoughts.
al
p.s. I love the part about the cot next to his bed. My mother-in-law would watch the kids and my wife would stay up with me in the same way. That kind of devotion does great things for a man, pie. Your hubby is a very lucky man.
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