escape

Return to me,
my lady,
as my somnolence
has been an evil
holding my thoughts
beneath the surface.

The sanguine ink
in my glass
makes these words
escape with far more ease.

You lay in candlelight,
my olive princess
with the sweet smell
of jasmine and mint,
penetrating my limbic recesses.

I have yearned for this moment,
for far longer than I could bare;
we make for the sheets,
one more time
in an attempt
to make me whole
once again.

silence

I will keep asking myself,
if their was something else
I could have done
for you.

The days that turned to weeks
standing at the foot of your bed
on morning rounds,
and during the rapid response.

We seemed to have
quelled the fire
in your bowels
and the arrhythmia in your heart.

Or so it seemed,
on the day of discharge;
yet now as you lay
silent...

I will keep asking myself,
if their was something else
I could have done
for you.

what I know

What I know,
about you,
is renal cell carcinoma,
metastasis,
hemorrhage,
ischemic bowel
renal failure,
continuous veno-venous hemodialysis,
norepinephrine and vasopressin,
anuria,
pressure ulcers,
anasarca,
liver failure and jaundice,
and finally,
digital necrosis.

What I know,
is a loving wife,
devoted and vociferous,
three daughters,
one with child,
(your grandchild)
full of fear and hesitation,
a faith in God,
and a favorite dog.

A Sunday paper,
an obituary,
and what I learned.
A Vietnam veteran,
a Marine,
a soldier and survivor,
a Purple Heart,
a hero.
A businessman,
a Miller brewing man,
and a husband of 43 years.

What I did not know,
could be kept in volumes,
of that I am sure,
but what I do know,
and what I learned,
will live in me forever.

a toast to better days

Your mind has calmed,
the raging paranoia
the tirade of fear and persecution
has escaped
as the serotonin was silenced.

You smile this morning,
shake my hand
and swallow hard.
The agony of each word
visible
on you sullen face.

Swallowing, that simple masticatory endpoint,
now an experiment in razor sharp pain,
testing a man's tolerance for anguish.

We discuss Labrador retrievers
and laugh when you mention your wife's
love of animals and your love of Nascar.
Yet as the humor subsides,
the chuckle turns to tears,
as you speak of family
and "helplessness,"
as the disease and its treatments
have ravaged your body
and stolen your mind.

Holding onto each moment,
it seems is all you can bare.

We sit silent
my head nodding in agreement
"that this sickness sucks."

Those words hang above
for minutes it seems.

You speak of hope
as I leave the room,
to continue the rounds,
and I hope too,
that I will see you again
tomorrow.