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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required One group of activists decided to fight. To see family lose their sense of might. Three people involved in each battle. For the patients each feeling like cattle. Five days of care each week is not enough. Sixty year olds help their moms with the stuff. Seven days a week is the demand on staff. Eighty year olds represent patients by half. Nineteen is the century the fighting were born. On the fence hoping for repairs of minds worn. Eleven is the hour at the end of a tough day. Twelve is a base caregiver hourly rate of pay. Thirteen is their grandkid’s bar mitzvah year. For the teenagers, ending up like that is a fear. Fifteen is the age they get behind the wheel. Six teens riding grandpa’s car, so easy to steal. Seventeen is the number we aim to complete. Of our daily ground pushing of hands and feet. If you wonder why I wrote this special rhyme. It’s the memory of lost family, taken by time. Pushups are the weapon that this army fires. These bodies strengthen when the mind tires. Challenging muscles with full body tension. Using Facebook to get supportive attention. We grind out numbers daily, big and small. Uplifting strugglers when they trip and fall. Getting our hands dirty just like caregivers. Seeing the decompensation brings on shivers. I’m mustering the strength from palms to toes. To push back and hit the disease in the nose. It may take over many of us when we get old. But for now I push back and will never fold.
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