We of the Waiting Room - poem

You can listen to a waiting room clock,

ticking for hours,

marking time,

counting down,

for what seems like too long,

slowly losing hope, and bracing yourself,

and embracing the tick-tock melancholy,

of an prolonged time you wish would pass.

You can choke back tears,

and struggle to smile while you give thanks,

to every "I'll pray for you"

"I'm sorry for your loss",

"Hang in there".

As if you have not heard them all

repeated endlessly from apathetic mouths,

who don't truly understand or care.

And you must thank them for their kind words,

while you are dying inside

and you want nothing more

than to lay by yourself and wail.

You can go days without sleep,

while your loved-one sleeps on,

for what seems like forever,

and from the tiredness and deprivation,

you begin to wonder,

is death really all that different,

or all that worse,

than a comatose sleep,

filled with wires and machines and inactivity.

I know you,

broken lips and bruised fingertips,

nails marks steeped into your forearms,

cracked skin and dry eyes,

droopy eyelids above them,

greasy hair and hunger pains,

because you cannot bear to leave for just a moment.

You cannot think about yourself for just a moment.

I know you,

teeming with indecisiveness,

brewing with anger, or guilt,

with misguided emotions,

and intense responsibility,

that makes you question yourself

I see you,

shaking from your 7th cup of coffee,

fighting with the nurse every time you must leave the room,

gripping the ends of your waiting room chairs,

anticipation and anxiety building beneath your rib cage,

with no other though than when you will see them again.

I see you,

your arms shaking, your body heaving,

you eyes shut tight against the world,

focused only on the embrace of your equal,

as you try to hold them tight enough to break them,

you try to snap your body, and their body,

the way that loss has snapped your heart,

and left only empty cavities to rest inside your chest.

I see you,

guiding the children into the rooms,

or the grandchildren,

in a last attempt to rouse a reaction,

in a last goodbye for young ones who won't even remember,

the sound of their grandparent's voice.

A last goodbye, a last attempt,

for those who don't even understand.

And all in vain.

I hear you,

tears streaming down your face,

collapsed onto the floor under ICU bright lights,

your wails only masked by the sound,

of a steady note that signals the battle lost.

I hear you,

hushed whispers before loved ones,

and decisions made, that leave you second-guessing,

for the rest of your life.

I hear your what if's and your doubts,

I hear your concerns and you inability.

I hear your responsibility thrust upon you,

and your bitterness that could rouse a nation.

I know the pain and the loss,

I know agonizingly slow hours,

with questions that cannot be answered.

I see the trembling lips and the tired eyes,

I see the shaky hands and shaky voices,

because even after all of this you are strong.

I hear the wailing and the crying,

I hear the haunting echos of pain

they resonate deep within me,

and keep me awake at night.

And beneath all of the pain,

I understand,

and I understand hope.

And while hope is often what ruins us,

and brings us our pain and loss,

it is what keeps us thriving and loving,

because you always have a chance.

I know you,

the elation upon a smiling doctor

the relief that you drink with your good news,

the jolt of energy you get when they finally open their eyes.

I know you,

the irrepressible laughter when they move once again,

and the warmth in your body, the numbness of your limbs,

upon your confirmation that it is going to be okay.

I see you,

the death-tight grip of your hand on theirs,

the happy tears that taste like relief,

the smiles that only come after long periods without them.

I see you,

with color in your face,

with light in your eyes,

for the first time in too long.

I hear you,

cheering and weeping,

shushed by the professionals,

though your excitement cannot be hushed.

I hear you,

cracked voices raising above the still,

stuttering prayers of thanks,

passing thoughts of love.

And as you pull through, you know

it ends, eventually, it ends.

and whether or not it ends in success,

is utterly and pathetically out of your control,

and you can do nothing but wait, and watch,

and hope.

We are binded, blinded, by hope, us lovers,

Us dreams and fighters,

We, the confused and the frightened,

the anxious and tired,

the broken and wishful

the victorious and defeated,

the hopeful.

We are binded by hope, and thus bound,

We are here for each other,

for the good and the bad,

for the inevitable end,

We are here,

grounded by harsh realities,

We are real,

though our fighting would suggest we are legend,

We are strong,

though we can only see our weakness,

And we are loved,

When we can only think to give it,

and not to receive.

ns 18.68.41.183da2

poem

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