Munchausen By Proxy
Sometimes she will talk of it, not often,
but maybe her mother, just to see how she is doing,
opens a door in her mind again.
Dead mother, in her very special way, still cares.
When young, very young,
she was taken on long silent walks
to the emergency room;
another inexplicable illness had
crept into her bed.
One more deadly threshold
needed to be avoided,
a mother’s love demanded it,
needed this stage,
this on-going hospital drama
she had created for her daughter.
Back then they had interesting remedies
for chronically sick little girls,
some involved iron tubes and leather straps,
calming gas. Prolonged poking and
bedrest.
Mother was always word perfect,
knew all the medical terms,
could discuss with ease all the
signs and symptoms.
All was meticulously rehearsed.
The Doctors, if suspicious were compliant.
After umpteen visits
medical records grew voluminous.
They sent inspectors; case books were opened.
Eventually her mother closed herself down,
hiding behind a wall of ignorance.
After all she was the victim,
she kept telling her daughter so.
When her mind finally broke
only my wife could see it,
could tell that all that imagined sickness
had turned itself back upon her
seeking at long last a real a cure,
however she died knowing
there never was one.
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