Father Spirit: the Messenger

Glass Half Full
 
“Your husband’s in the emergency room.”
My mind jump-starts to scenes of gloom.
He choked upon a piece of meat.
They could not get his heart to beat,
But he’s OK; he’s come around.
We need you to come in to town.
We’re going to do some chest X-rays.
Pneumonia is a risk, they say.
I go get dressed in disbelief;
But that he’s fine is some relief.
 
Well, here we go; it’s now begun—
The latter stage of Huntington’s.*
We’ve battled this for ten, long years,
Through sorrow, change and many tears.
‘Twas rooted in his fam’ly tree,
Unknown to him, unknown to me.
Our kids may have it in their genes.
It is a monstrous thief—obscene.
It slowly steals away the brain.
His speaking, walking aren’t the same.
 
His extra movements all the time
Are burning fuel, so weight declines.
One’s thinking goes and bladder too.
Your body sort of quits on you.
Trouble swallowing food or drink,
Pneumonias push one to the brink.
Nature’s cruel and devious trick.
A “mid-life crisis,” decades sick.
It makes me sad and bitter, sure.
The docs treat symptoms but no cure.
 
My husband’s lost most ev’rything,
Except for faith—to God, he clings.
I think he’s more content than I.
He says he wants to live, not die.
He does not want a D.N.R.^
‘Cause he’s OK the way things are.
He loves to eat, to watch TV,
To go to church; see family.
He loves the men at Sunday School.
They love him back which is so cool.
 
He still roots hard for U.V.A.
Counts his blessings every day.
He likes his nursing home, OK.
The staff is kind in ev’ry way.
He sees the fullness of his glass.
He does not dwell upon the past.
He does not ask if this is fair.
He does not worry or despair.
His childlike mind is most content.
Oh, teach me, God, to be so bent!

 
Sara B. Dickinson
January 15, 2010
  *For more info on HD see: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Huntington%27s_disease
^D.N.R. stands for a Do Not Rescusitate directive signed by the patient or his legal proxy.