Heidi van Rooyen
Your last few months
were endless.
In pain, fussy, irritable,
paranoid
you hated your need.
My sister you liked.
No nonsense, physical, practical
she seemed schooled for dying:
fluffed your pillows,
deftly turned you
propped you up
so you looked like yourself.
Grief
ate my strength.
I couldn’t lift you,
but I could sit:
silent and still
create a space
for our pain to spoon.
I’d watch.
Look for signs of my mother.
But find instead
shrunken, frail bones on your bed.
Dark brown eyes deep in their sockets
ready to leave this cervical war.
Beautiful full lips, tongue and mouth
stained with morphine thrush.
Each swallow
a slow painful slide down your throat.
Your only comfort
the old sheepskin blanket
easing the ooze of your bed sores.
It’s the final stretch.
You are back in hospital.
The doctor calls a family meeting.
He says: “This could go on forever or we can help”.
Or words to that effect.
Death talk is never straight.
Someone must always fill in the blanks.
The doctor is asking for permission to kill you.
Morphine via a drip will do the trick.
“It should be quick” he says. “One drip will probably…”
We fumble towards an answer without ever admitting our actions.
It’s decided… I offer… I’m not sure.
My 23-year old self will sit shiva.
Head resting on your bed
I sing your favourite hymns,
murmur prayers.
Eyes lift occasionally to check
your drip, your breathing.
I clasp your elegant,
slim fingers
so much like mine
just browner,
worn with love.
The sun rises on the beach across the road.
Your breathing, shallow, rhythmical.
My voice hoarse
songs and prayers lost in guilt.
The nurse and I on shorthand terms now.
“Another?” she asks. I nod.
It’s close to lunch-time
on the day you were supposed to be dead.
Everyone else has come back.
“Ma still here”, they whisper.
I nod, turn away.
None of us trusting our eyes.
It’s after 3, and a third drip is nearing its end.
I step out to find forgiveness.
In the space I vacate
you finally take your leave.
Featured at The Red Wheelbarrow with the Life Riting Collective on 21 July 2022
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