My seemingly loving efforts appear to have been~
regardless of my good intentions.
That stupid fucking realization:
“The grass only grew when we left it alone.”
And I then-
Well, I looked at my hands;
each rubbing the other like it would somehow bring the other- comfort…
and I flashed upon a memory…
a memory of my father~
wringing his hands…
Because there’s nothing else you can do when “rainy days and Mondays always bring you down…”
I wished that it was all gaslighting-
I cannot deny my own part in the fire-
that fire that burnt everything.
Everything we loved-
Everything we planned-
All the things we planted-
I am the common denominator who just…
Just brought it to it’s knees and then to a-
To a bitter fucking end.
And everything I thought I knew
and everything I was meant to do-
Was smoldering… kindling~
Left to mildew:
Mildew like forgotten laundry in the wash~
The kind you forget because you think you’re happy;
you are busy;
you feel content.
Then and only then-
do you realize:
you left it;
left it TOO long~
in the rain… and also;
On the line-
and now it’s sour;
That smell can not be washed out.
Working in hospice is a trip. Some days are really hard and I’m thankful to have coworkers and some friends who get it.
Death is an ever looming presence in this job and sometimes when a patient dies it hits like a gut punch.
Most people don’t get it, the typical response is “well they were on hospice so it wasn’t unexpected so why are you feeling ___________?”
Well yes, they WERE on hospice.
But also, NO….
I’m one of these lucky social workers who have quite a vivid imagination and this works to my advantage and disadvantage. While I can empathize with the patients or their families because I can try to imagine what they’re going thru (to the best of my ability) but unfortunately when they pass, I can also rabbit hole on that experience as well. We don’t always KNOW and when someone is alone at that moment, we never know. Was it quick? Was it painful? Were they scared? Particularly right now when it is hard to see patients in homes and facilities, as a social worker or a chaplain. Sure- there’s some ways around it if things are “imminent” but you don’t always know. Sometimes it’s more rapid than anticipated or a complete surprise. I think about it too much for my own good, probably. It goes downhill from there and snowballs, but I personally take solace in the fact that I still care this much. But not with all patients. Not that I don’t care for them all, but I’m sure there’s some projection, transference, something that makes some harder than others. Maybe it has to do with how long you work with someone. Maybe they remind you of someone: consciously or subconsciously, or they represent something or someone we fear or worry about. Lots of possibilities. Maybe it simply has to do with my control issues. My version of denial of my own mortality. I’m not sure really. But regardless, some days, some patients, some deaths, hit harder and last longer than others.
Keep doing the good work. That’s all we can do.
All the things shed-
to make way for new beginnings:
replaced by ectothermic forces
reflection no longer representative
of the self recognized by Id-
mortal coil bound.
long life lived
for the chance to repair-
the choice to revisit-
the future of a soul
in need of trauma repair-
like mercury retrograde
making all communication
futile; yet needed.
spiral spiral spiral
who do we see when we look?
cracked and distorted
through a looking glass, darkly.
How did it happen-
the only one alone here;
Me. Again. Of course.
Walking the damn line-
Praying for spiritual strength
And fast Benedryl.
How I find myself here
Cutting my mother’s hair.
When I swore we’d never speak
Never give myself the chance
to destroy her…
Like I know I could.
Such a moment of grace
And a realization-
“I forgive her”
And for once,
It’s not about her.
It was not me, first
Sorrow is a contagion…
Such an aberrant sentiment-
Unflinchingly given and reluctantly- accepted.
Growth is rarely a comfortable present;
at least not in the moment.
More of a gift to be appreciated when one grows older.
Cleverly disguised truth-
A Postmodern Jukebox manifestation of arrested development,
to be waded through both side by side
and often you taking point.
A partner and a challenge-
a teacher and a blessing.
An organized wish come through,
willed by his hands~
Surrounded by the ever present Spectre of death…
Mortality itself has haunted since the 11th year-
Family & friends dying like the Hemingways and Fondas having a competition…
Addictions and violence permeate a life… a society… a culture.
Supporting those you love,
Facing my own fears;
Tasked with aiding those in grief…
A lifetime of training?
They don’t tell you the right things to say…
Or even the wrong things to say.
“It will always come in waves… they just get further between…”
Weak tea for the knock kneed.
Birth to death and all between;
Beautiful acceptance to righteous anger-
Fuck this mortal coil.
What a compounding thought-
Reflecting on my daddy issues;
My insane need for a father figure…
What I needed was a foundation-
“The all father”
for all intents and purposes-
An education on faith-
Repentance AND reconciliation.
A basis for growth- a reason for service and understanding of trauma-
And finally- a present presence.
I’ve subdued my urges-
As often as I can…
Quieting the undesired parts of self.
But still… it’s not enough-
Now, inactions aren’t enough…
Words now forbidden-chastised-shamed-