Long Dialysis Poems
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It's Not About Me
In England my mom was a nurse during WW11
Caring for Americans and British soldiers tis true
Hearing her stories was my inspiration
Registered nurse became my aspiration
During the years I've served as a nurse
My experience and patients have been diverse
Working in various fields as I am very curious
Mental health, dialysis, triage, all very serious
Some situations are sad, I learned not to cry
It is not about me, only their comfort to heal or to die
Of course, when I got home I sometimes shed tears
Hoping our care was sufficient and alleviated their fears
What I have gained is more than I gave
Learning courage from patients we tried to save
Save from addictions, pain, or death
People laughing, smiling despite struggling for breath
Some days have been funny,hilarious, some sad
Serving the Lord and people, for all days I am glad
My decision to be a nurse has made me stronger
I thank my patients and hope I can serve longer
say a prayer for dot
she never forgot me
she treated me like one of the family
now she is on the list for a kidney
i wish i could take her pain with me
all i can do is pray....so please say a prayer for dot
she just started dialysis
that process is NO JOKE!
reminds me of my maternal grandmother
reminds me of how good i have it right now in life
i always say that i am humbles everyday
so many people going through things twenty times as worse as my third level worry
it makes me Thank and Praise God more
i will probably need to ask Him for Forgiveness tomorrow for something stupid that i chose to do
at times it is always the good ones who are suffering through the worst of struggles
sometimes i think God is trying to tell me something
well, Heavenly Father, i am listening and paying attention today
i am not the most righteous
i am not the most rudimentary
however You judge not
i do not have a lot
that being said, with all i got
i say a special prayer for dot....AMEN....
I was only five and barely alive; diagnosed with a dreaded disease;
For six months I lay in a hospital bed not quite ready to leave.
My kidneys had failed; medications were no avail;
dialysis seemed the only treatment.
Then a miracle occurred; I know it’s absurd,
because they don’t really happen too frequent.
Every morning I wasn’t dead the doctors scratched their heads
wondering how I was hanging on -
And slowly but surely I started to heal until the disease, somehow, was gone.
I was written about in the medical journals as an unsolved mystery;
That time in my life – even as young as I was - is my most significant history.
Not many of us can remember our lives when we were only five years old –
But I am here to tell, I remember it well; and often my story I’ve told.
A special bond had formed between my father and me
who visited me every day;
While my mother stayed home taking care of my five siblings
with one more sister on the way.
I write many poems of pure fiction but I assure you this story is true;
I was five years old, when my parents were told soon my life would be through.
This year, I turn 54 and have never had any kidney problems since.
Written and posted by Joe Flach on 1/8/2012 for Nette Onclauds, "...At This Age" contest.
The patients often rock back and forth,
or pace as if to move away
from their frustrations,
their situation, their self,
but the same always follows.
Their only task is existence...
yet such a heavy endeavor,
like moving through thick mud,
always messy and often stuck.
As long as they remain their same selves,
they remain a prisoner of themselves,
haunted by screams of unworthiness,
threats of unforgiveness,
and insistence of victimization.
Psychologists ask questions
and sometimes make suggestions.
Doctors dictate medications.
Many have chemical dependency
or a congenital chemical imbalance
and lack the physical capacity to be happy,
in the same way someone with kidney failure
would die without dialysis.
Patients regress into numbness,
an unintrusive seclusion
and an attempt to avoid
misery's self-abusing mind.
Some find an escape,
by God's grace,
faithfully willing their way
out of their mental detention and
the "Rehabilitation" Center Prison.
A diesel generator
drowns out the rusted Marshall stack
Six years we owned
the Billboard charts;
the DJ who crowned us
every summer
for five straight years—
this week, a county fair;
tonight, the Music Pier.
The drummer tapes two split fingers
closes his hand once
hard—
then rests the sticks
by Mick’s ashes
in a Folgers Black Silk can behind the kit
Tommy’s gold sequins
snag on his dialysis catheter
as he sits
Johnnie the P-bassist drags a stool onstage
to ease his neuropathy
We are crushed elderberries
hawking CDs from a card table,
bleeding a dark, tart stain
onto ninety aluminum chairs
No teenagers weep;
a man wipes funnel-cake grease
from his chin
As I tune the cherry-red '57 Stratocaster
down a minor third,
hoarse from pushing air
through a throat scraped thick
with scar tissue
We were a dense, golden field
beneath the studio lights
on Midnight Special
Now plucked dandelion crowns
scatter over Ferris wheel blacktop,
leaving white ghost-tufts
snagged in the Music Pier’s
boardwalk planks
Where just three bald stems
plug into the seaside damp—
and the seeds drift past the shoreline,
washed up,
vanishing into the deep
we used to call home
They could plant the fields that lie like open palms
beside the razor wire, lay seed into the warm
Florida dirt that never truly sleeps, let men
who have been buried in concrete feel the soft
argument of soil against their hands again,
and grow food the way the state once did,
slow and honest, fed by sun and sweat.
They could raise cattle where scrub and wiregrass
already bend toward grazing, milk cows at dawn,
collect eggs still warm as breath, lift fish
from green ponds flashing like coins—
protein not poured from a sack of powder,
not pressed from soy and sodium,
but walking, swimming, clucking life.
They could feed their own—
collards and beans, rice and squash,
cornmeal thick as the voice of a grandmother,
milk in real cartons, fruit that stains the fingers,
meals that build blood instead of clogging it,
that lower the sugar in the veins,
that keep hearts from breaking early.
They could teach men how to keep something alive,
how to watch for illness, how to measure feed,
how to clean a blade, how to respect a body,
animal or human, how to make a living
out of tending instead of taking,
how to leave prison knowing
how to grow the next meal.
They could save millions and spend less on pills,
less on dialysis, less on broken men,
and turn prisons into granaries for hurricanes,
into barns of second chances,
into quiet classrooms where the land
speaks more clearly than any judge ever did.
But trucks keep coming, long and loud,
hauling contracts instead of carrots,
profits instead of potatoes,
because someone always gets paid
when a prison stays hungry,
and a hungry system votes the way it’s told.
So the fields stay empty, the barns stay locked,
and men eat punishment three times a day,
because rehabilitation doesn’t fit on a campaign sign,
and growing food doesn’t grow donors,
and corruption tastes better
to those who never have to swallow
what they feed the caged.
(This is a fictional poem)
I have to come here continuously to be on dialysis.
My kidneys are no longer good and I really hate this.
Several of my relatives could've donated a kidney but they all said no.
I've always been good to them and when they refused, it was pretty low.
When my brother had an accident last year, I donated blood.
I even bought him his first car and he treated me like mud.
After three and a half decades, I finally see these relatives for what they are.
Being related to such losers really hurts and it has given me emotional scars.
Maybe I'll get a kidney even though things look pretty grim.
But when it comes to my relatives, I will never forgive them.
Give This Guy a Chance
Throw in
Rowen
The Hypochondriac
Dyin’
Eyan
So Generous is He
Giver
River
The Sneaky One
Wily
Riley
The Parachutist
Glider
Ryder
Legal in Half the States
Ruby’s
Doobies
Cute as a Lass
Bonny
Ronny
So Sweet
Randy’s
candies
Always at the Beach
Randall’s
Sandals
Swam to Florida
Cuban
Rueben
Too Stocky for His Race Horse
Jockey
Rocky
Give him a Hanky, Please
Clammy
Sammy
Prefers Prosecution
Lawyer
Sawyer
Guy with Allergies
Itchy
Richie
Time to Land
Fly low,
Shiloh
Always on Dialysis
Sydney’s
Kidneys
A Simple Rapping Pieman
Rhymin’
Simon
Ballerino
Twirling
Sterling
Why He Was Put in Time Out
Sinbad
be bad
The Guy Whose Buttons Pop off
Glutton
Sutton
Presenting to the emergency room, patient "BB,"
a dad who swallowed a snow globe carelessly.
Out of ALC, voices crying, "YOLO,"
PO, he took a big gulp of fantasy snow.
NAGI, his stomach churned immediately.
He could hear little elves dancing with a BEG.
Brought to the ER unconscious with HBP,
HAGMA, and tachypnea, unfortunately.
A CT scan revealed a kidney infection.
MDs dispensed an antibiotic injection.
Dialysis was administered, but he was still KO.
His kidney's were decorated in crystals of "snow."
Ten WKs later he could walk again (to the bar),
but will likely need dialysis 4EVR.
You are what you eat, (BB made a recovery)
but don't be a snowflake, the moral of the story.
(Watch the attached video for the full story.)
ALC- alcohol
YOLO- you only live once
PO- by mouth
NAGI- not a good idea
BEG- big evil grin
ER- emergency room
HBP- high blood pressure
HAGMA- high anion gap metabolic acidosis
CT- computerized tomography
MD- medical doctors
KO- knocked out
WK- week
4EVER- forever
3-21-2021
ACRONYMS IN COUPLETS Poetry Contest
Sponsor: L MILTON HANKINS
Life was beautiful
Typical teenager
Junior year 2003
Living life’
Walking the halls
Feeling confident
One morning
Walking up the stairs
Lost my breath
Fighting for air
Went to the clinic
Test said negative
Wish it would’ve been positive
Second opinion
UTI
I would’ve accepted that
Day before thanksgiving
Wasn’t feeling thankful
My body was dying
Drowning in its toxins
I woke to a blurry worry
I could hear
But my vision vanish
I couldn’t breathe
Kept my cool
Saving my mama
Heartbreak
Went back to bed
Praying this a dream
This nightmare go away
I knew I was dying
I feared the worst
Sleeping to my death
Which was hours away
My lifeless body shutting down
Midnight follow me
Dogs sense death
She waited for me
By the bathroom
My fears came true
Sounds of the water
No flow
No drop
My world stop
Mama push me to get ready
It took me hour to dress
I had to follow everyone voice
I realize I was really blind
Mama kept asking
Look at her
Had to fight to find her
I finally did
Doctor hit me with a blow
A blow I couldn’t take
She was in tears
She couldn’t get the words out
End Stage Renal Failure
E
S
R
D
I could’ve died a thousand deaths
No words could explain my pain
How did I end up here
16 years old
Felt hopeless
Denial angry
Felt angry
Felt robbed
Robbed of my dreams
Air force
Kids
Family