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Poem

sitting in the waiting room
during the designated “visiting hours”
means nothing to the loved one in 
turmoil---
for while the reality of the person on the 
bed in the cutting room
is more than enough to break down the human
psyche, taking one to the most primal edge of
sanity, just about to push them over the
brink,
the fact that the last words spoken to the one now being
operated on,
could’ve been the last,
spirals within & contorts relentlessly 
any chance of getting a grip of the hour of the day,
the day of the week, what month it is, the year,
or just what will happen in a few moments---
the self-torture increases with each suited staff member who comes walking around the corner---
one wonders if the doctor in charge will be next &
with her/him will come words of refreshing calm
where “stable” will be repeated 
instead of “critical”---
and there are the flashes of times past 
that bring tears to the eyes &
there are moments one remembers of horrible cruelty
which make one stare down at their shoes
wishing that they themselves were in that room
being sliced open, rather than the loved one
whom in retrospect,
deserved not one iota of the emotions of those moments
that tattoo across the heart & mind,
never to be forgotten---
a hospital wait’s terrible trials & tribulations taking place inside
the loved ones forced to endure the dragging duration
for what seems like forever
is right up there with the most successful means of interrogation,
as the death of a loved one is so much more dramatic for us all
than our own demise,
the difference being that there isn’t anything to extract from ourselves
but a hope that things will be better
if our loved one pulls through.

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