Tag Archives: chronic illness

DIABETIC LESSONS

Photo by Nataliya Vaitkevich on Pexels.com

Each morning I draw blood

pressing a needle beneath my skin.

It no longer hurts nerves 

deadened by repetition.

I watch blood drawn in the streets,

the blood of others

I shall never meet.

I have learned to bear my own pain.

The pain of others is a heavier rain

upon a parched soul

in need of hope.

My greatest fear is that one day,

as in all things,

that greater pain will fade away.

I will become numb to others’ pain.

That is the day I shall be dead

even as my heart still beats

and I still bleed.

Blood will flow in streets I no longer see.

But, I shall no longer feel a thing.

Government has become 

too sickeningly sweet.

The only cure is to stop feeding off

brutality, lies and corruption,

hoping for gain that is never enough.

A nation feeding off its own

cannot survive.

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Filed under POETRY, POLITICS

HOME FROM THE HOSPITAL

Photo by Anna Shvets on Pexels.com

Hospital stays are never pretty.

Patients surrounded by the dark and gritty

effort to save sinew and bone

and beating hearts wavering, so alone.

A constant metallic beep and buzz replaces

the sound of family and friends at home,

with laughing hearts and loving faces.

Grim falsity becomes another unknown,

where workers hurry to keep apace

while patients solemnly lie abed

filled with worry and becalmed dread

of what the next test will indicate

the next test to affirm the threat.

The test itself is no gift of nature,

but a torture device to be endured.

Patients find distaste and abhor

the endless infusion of poisonous brews

meant to enlighten the darkest space

within the sublime mystery of anatomy.

The test itself darkens the soul 

desperately trying to stay whole.

Patients share their common litany

when nurses and aides walk out the door,

“ Just leave me be. Please, leave me be!

I cannot take this anymore.”

Good wishes and good intent well-meant

is not enough to meet patients’ wishes

to truly be seen for who they are.

But to see a person builds connections

which too often may break, despite intentions

to save that life hanging in the balance

and wrench away the peace of mind required

to cut an incision or suture a wound

of a real person and not just a body of flesh.

What more can anyone expect or be desired?

Health care soon becomes mired

in benign neglect, or outright disdain

for any patient who might complain

of treatment that robs one’s dignity

with the sacred promise of impunity

clothed in false smiles pasted on hurt faces.

The real issue seems to me

that we can never forget our common humanity.

That patients and medical personnel are both trying

to do their best to heal a body which is always dying.

Bodies begin to die from the moment they are born.

No time to waste as we embrace each morn.

The stakes are so high we often forget

the needs of the living-ill must still be met.

Gratitude only carries patients so far.

Hopefully, out the door and home once more.

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TOO LATE TO FALL

Photo by Oguz Karatas on Pexels.com

The days are too short and I am too late to Fall.

Already squirreled away are days of memories.

Flights of fancy replace flights of geese as I stray

along paths emptied of those I loved and knew.

No masks can hide the loss of smiles

stolen by chronic illness and despair

that movie theaters, museums and restaurants

will ever be safe for those who struggle to stay well.

Longer nights are a blessing in disguise,

where one can hide the lack of company

and loneliness subsides.

Too late to Fall. Too ill to conceive a winter

depleted of all company. 

With the sun hope rises, only to set too soon.

In the midst of all this, it is too late to Fall.

Only so many years are left to share

with friends and family, if I dare, at all.

I am too old, too sick,

too late to Fall.

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CHRONICALLY WELL

FOLLOW THE LIGHT, Louise Annarino 2015

The chronically ill can teach us a lot.

their only role, their only goal

is to become well.

To be well they must be good.

Goodness stems from the earth’s swell

offering direction and protection

from heat and cold, dampness and mold

by rules of nature ancient and bold.

Rules which seamlessly flow

from stars above and earth below.

Walking barefoot and bareheaded

begins one’s instruction, and forms connection

to the healing power of universal affection

for all life willing to know, and grow

into a being of energy full of light and aglow

within every cell and coursing stream

of willpower and desire to hold each hour

in sacred trust and wondrous love.

To the chronically ill it is clear one must

transcend pain and overcome fear with trust;

to value only what is now, and what is here.

To be not chronically ill; but, chronically well.

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OLD FRIENDS ARE THE BEST FRIENDS

When was the hour 

the garden gained power

to teach life’s lesson of love

that one could recover its loss?

1993 was the year.

Each moment held dear.

The Waterford Tower

ended homelessness

when friendship shared

a dwelling of peace and safety

after illness took my career.

Who knew the fraud of success is real

where friendships are concerned?

Positional power has no hold

on false friendships born daily anew.

Personal power takes energy to maintain,

more than CFIDS allowed.

The oldest friends remained.

Love untarnished, contained

year after year through our play.

Like perennial flowers they sustained me. 

Their roots planted wide, firm and deep.

Annuals come and go with the sun.

Flashier and more colorful, perhaps;

but unable to fulfill winter’s need

to dig down deep beneath winter’s chill

until sunny days of Spring restore

all that one once hoped for.

Old friends flower in my garden.

Old friends remain on cold days of change.

Old friends stay the course until the end.

1993 was only the beginning 

of planting my feet in old soil,

among old friends.

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Rockslide,Louise Annarino,1-26-2013

Rockslide,Louise Annarino,1-26-2013

 

Another day started late

beyond the time to contemplate

justification for the time spent

writing a poem

few will read.

Nerves on edge

of a precipice built

with loose gravel,

not a sturdy life,

but shortened breaths

encased in gossamer

wings no longer

able to fly.

And, again

I ask “why?”

Why energy fled

before the keep was taken,before

the soul was shaken

like a tambourine’s

tinny sound,

uneven like my steps

placed in fear

of falling down

on my own,

or in the rockslide

my life is built upon.

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Stolen Nights,Louise Annarino,1-14-2013

Chronic Fatigue Syndrome,Louise Annarino,1-14-2013

Stolen nights

give way to

give-away days

where nothing goes right

and no one

can be good

or enough

for me.

The air seems too thin

to inflate

the ego of distaste

for a body too frail

to tolerate

a push

of caffeine.

One bag of tea

and one old bag

of me

are not a good mix

and nix any dreams

of normalcy.

To be free

to sleep

to dream

to rise with the dawn

and the stamina

to go on

and make a day

so strong

illness cannot make

me give it away

for nothing.

Is that too much to ask?

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