Wednesday, December 18, 2019

KA Rees #70 - Hospital Pass


Hospital Pass

Gate
I
At the pearly gates there’s a sign
that says WAIT. There is no one around,
that’s why the letters are large, WAIT
perhaps the souls who turn up at these gates are myopic,
the letters act as a break on further
motion—like seeing a STOP sign—your foot clamps down
on the pedal. Perhaps
we can assume
souls who wait come from continents that contain
traffic signals,
and, although corpse-less, remain aware of protocols required to STOP
and WAIT for further signals—while other souls—unbeknown
to the sign, glide on.

Building
II
The hospital is mostly white. The parking lot full of stickered cars. There
are directions on how to get to wards and instructions for soon-to-be-patients
to register as a patient. Once registration is complete, a room is allocated;
a nurse asks your name, date of birth and procedure you
are in hospital for. Every time the patient has an interaction with a nurse,
these details are requested. It’s called liturgy for a medical
practice.

You are fitted with two pieces of plastic that state your name, date of birth,
ward, and admission date. One is strapped around your ankle, the other round
your wrist. The next time the nurse asks you name and date of birth
you point to the piece of plastic studded at your wrist.
She says, not unkindly,
I’m sorry, we need you to confirm.

Confirm that my full first name is only ever used
by my mother when I am in the shit. Confirm I am 44
years old. Confirm, the lump I thought was an enlarged
voice box loosing its fight
with gravity, is a tumour with cellular growth
of two distinct varieties.

Hospitals, it seems, are a combination of Mother Teresa and Monty Python.

Machine
III
On the fettered machines at the side of the room
and above the bed are pictures on how to wash hands
for sanitation and patient safety. There are
instructions for patients to read ‘The Instructions’
and understand patient obligations. There are many
obligations, the least of which
is your obligation to report any grievance
against your person.


I glance
down
at my name and date
of birth strapped
to my wrist
and ankle,
make a mental note
to write
a poem on the topic
‘obligation’.


IV
IV
The cannula is inserted into the vein on your left hand
the memory falls like rain on a salt pan, how the pain
of this prick
lasts as long as the pain of birthing
the ones that
became your children, when you were incredulous
with a paper cut after a 36 hour labour. How
is it possible this
thin red line
should burn? After all of the pain
we should somehow
be more.




2 comments:



  1. those gates are not so white on the inside
    it's the wailing and gnashing ya know

    looking fwd to 'Obligation'

    ReplyDelete

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