Can of Soup
Standing in the checkout line,
Humming and tapping
to the muzak in time,
waiting just to pay and go.
Browse the fashion trashing tabloids
and tasty artisnacks,
looking over my loaded cart,
putting stuff back
that’s not on my list.
Lady behind me’s all pissed
about all my disgarded junk
invading “her” space in line.
HERS.
Do you mind?!
Hurry up, now,
I gotta run,
gotta get back home
in time to fix a
little something for dinner.
I gotta life, you know,
outside this store.
I can’t wait here all day….
Just another minute,
almost done,
I’ll be home soon….
Fall back with my head
on the pillow,
trying to let go of
the thing that won’t leave.
The damn I.V. dug in my arm,
dripping steady and warm,
drowning my pain down
the hall of my dream.
Hmmm, seems pretty real, though--
It is just a dream, right?
Did I imagine all the nurses
browsing down the hallways
of the patient rooms,
like shoppers in the stores,
checking, fluffing,
holding clipboards,
pushing their computer carts,
clipping bandages like coupons.
Scanning wristbands
like swiping cans of soup
across the sensors,
one right after the other,
at the checkout line.
So robotic, automatic,
ignoring the snoring,
the moaning, the crying,
the pissing and bleeding in bed.
Dead, oblivious to all but
the pulse oxymeter,
blood pressure stats,
and the beeping on the screen.
Tell me I’m dreaming….
Humming and tapping
to the muzak in time,
waiting just to pay and go.
Browse the fashion trashing tabloids
and tasty artisnacks,
looking over my loaded cart,
putting stuff back
that’s not on my list.
Lady behind me’s all pissed
about all my disgarded junk
invading “her” space in line.
HERS.
Do you mind?!
Hurry up, now,
I gotta run,
gotta get back home
in time to fix a
little something for dinner.
I gotta life, you know,
outside this store.
I can’t wait here all day….
Just another minute,
almost done,
I’ll be home soon….
Fall back with my head
on the pillow,
trying to let go of
the thing that won’t leave.
The damn I.V. dug in my arm,
dripping steady and warm,
drowning my pain down
the hall of my dream.
Hmmm, seems pretty real, though--
It is just a dream, right?
Did I imagine all the nurses
browsing down the hallways
of the patient rooms,
like shoppers in the stores,
checking, fluffing,
holding clipboards,
pushing their computer carts,
clipping bandages like coupons.
Scanning wristbands
like swiping cans of soup
across the sensors,
one right after the other,
at the checkout line.
So robotic, automatic,
ignoring the snoring,
the moaning, the crying,
the pissing and bleeding in bed.
Dead, oblivious to all but
the pulse oxymeter,
blood pressure stats,
and the beeping on the screen.
Tell me I’m dreaming….
Back in time,
as a child,
I remember the line
from that show,
“Loaf of bread,
this is your life!”
What a life to have,
Loaf of Bread,
sitting passive on a shelf,
waiting to be grabbed,
pinched, squeezed,
bought, and eaten…..
Not exactly a
“Thank-you-come-again”
experience….
as a child,
I remember the line
from that show,
“Loaf of bread,
this is your life!”
What a life to have,
Loaf of Bread,
sitting passive on a shelf,
waiting to be grabbed,
pinched, squeezed,
bought, and eaten…..
Not exactly a
“Thank-you-come-again”
experience….
That’s all I am, I guess,
how I feel in this place,
cans on a shelf--
no sense of self,
none at all.
Phantom figments of
people flickering, hovering,
impatiently tending to patients,
bending over me
without “seeing” me,
dressing my wounds.
Meanwhile ignoring the
torn gowns of hope discarded,
soiled, unsnapped, gaping
as bare-bummed,
red-socked folks
shuffle with their
newly-befriended poles,
making the mad dash
to portable bedside commodes--
Whew!
Just in time to explode,
unload their mounting fears,
bracing themselves for
tears that are too scared to fall….
and flush it, fold it, tucking it all
back into upholding a semblance
of dignity, not shame.
Terrifying!
The sick and the lame all around me
speak my name with their eyes,
beg for a shred of humanity, of
decency, of feeling alive.
With care like this,
tell me, how can I survive?
Why would I want to,
if this is survival,
if this is the “personal” care
I get--
Makes me sick!
Oh, wait, I already am…..
It’s just a dream, a very bad dream!
Please!
Wake me up before I can’t anymore--
Hurry, see that lady at the door,
plastic-wrapped, gloved,
sterile Monster--
the one that digs around
in my veins
to find the blood
that she claims isn’t there,
(must be too sick and tired
to come out to play.)
Go away!
Just leave me alone!
people flickering, hovering,
impatiently tending to patients,
bending over me
without “seeing” me,
dressing my wounds.
Meanwhile ignoring the
torn gowns of hope discarded,
soiled, unsnapped, gaping
as bare-bummed,
red-socked folks
shuffle with their
newly-befriended poles,
making the mad dash
to portable bedside commodes--
Whew!
Just in time to explode,
unload their mounting fears,
bracing themselves for
tears that are too scared to fall….
and flush it, fold it, tucking it all
back into upholding a semblance
of dignity, not shame.
Terrifying!
The sick and the lame all around me
speak my name with their eyes,
beg for a shred of humanity, of
decency, of feeling alive.
With care like this,
tell me, how can I survive?
Why would I want to,
if this is survival,
if this is the “personal” care
I get--
Makes me sick!
Oh, wait, I already am…..
It’s just a dream, a very bad dream!
Please!
Wake me up before I can’t anymore--
Hurry, see that lady at the door,
plastic-wrapped, gloved,
sterile Monster--
the one that digs around
in my veins
to find the blood
that she claims isn’t there,
(must be too sick and tired
to come out to play.)
Go away!
Just leave me alone!
NO, not YOU!
Don’t go, please stay with me,
otherwise she’ll stick me again
‘til I bruise, or simply “forget”
to bring me some water,
or somehow manage not to hear
when I press, poke, and
desperately try to page her
with that abused button remote
just so I can go to the bathroom.
Hours later—“What do you need?”
Never mind.
Just bring me
another chuck for the bed
and a towel….
Welcome to my nightmare….
Don’t go, please stay with me,
otherwise she’ll stick me again
‘til I bruise, or simply “forget”
to bring me some water,
or somehow manage not to hear
when I press, poke, and
desperately try to page her
with that abused button remote
just so I can go to the bathroom.
Hours later—“What do you need?”
Never mind.
Just bring me
another chuck for the bed
and a towel….
Welcome to my nightmare….
What a way to heal—in a hospital,
of all places!
Fully trained, credentialed,
experienced. Expert.
Where they care,
where patient safety comes first,
but not comfort.
Where they make you
fill out forms till your hand aches from
holding a pen for too long,
but they won’t hold it.
Where they show you
where to get a visitor’s pass,
but won’t visit you, keep you company.
Where they say that they
truly do care
what you think, feel, or say….
By the way,
as I lie here,
stuck in my stink of a bed
in the Who-Gives-a-Crap
(I just did)
department, I think,
“Can of soup, this is your life!”
Well, here--
take your bedpan,
and your body wipes,
and your scratchy vinyl pillows!
I don’t need ‘em, and I don’t want ‘em!
I’m putting it back, all of it, back--
not on my list.
It’s my life, up to me, not you.
MINE!
Do you mind?!
Hurry up, now, quick!
Help me unplug from these wires.
I’m sick. And tired.
I’m going home.
I gotta life, you know,
outside this bed.
I can’t wait here all day….
it’s killing me.
Just scan my lovely little wristband,
so I can check-out and go.
"Thank you, come again"--
I think NOT.
©2010 Eliza Jane Farley Gomez
Written November 5, 2010, Revised November 8, 2010
By Eliza Jane Farley Gomez
Written November 5, 2010, Revised November 8, 2010
By Eliza Jane Farley Gomez
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OK, y'all have been kind enough to "hear me out"& n stuff, so let me know whatcha think, if I've rattled yer cage, voiced a shared thought or concern, or if you're gonna attain Enlightenment upon reading these DEEP THOUGHTS, or if ya think I'm just plumb WACKO--but please be decent in your expression of your sentiments, there's no need to sling mud, unless we're in POTTERY CLASS or at the BEACH! Thanks for reading n stuff...Laters!