I Can’t Look Week 4 LJ Idol

[adoptedwriter]

 I Can’t Look

 

I write my little imaginary dialogue

on scrap paper I’d stuffed in my pocket,

so glad you can’t see me as I scrawl,

hands shaking,

heart beating,

eyes darting,

on high alert.

 

Not sure what’s real or surreal 

anymore.

Writing is therapy in the moment.

It keeps me here and not here

since I’m barely able to focus,

bear witness,

or speak with intelligence.

I can’t leave,

but I have an exit plan if and when

that time comes,

and it’s coming

fast.

 

How does Joan do it?

She sees this every day,

like it’s no big deal.

She is kind, compassionate

and I suspect a bit lonely.

She’s extra chatty. 

She doesn’t get to bond with her patients,

and her patients never get to bond with her.  

 

Joan thinks I am making a grocery list,

but in reality,

I am self-soothing,

with a pencil in hand,

graphite smearing on the right side of my palm

as I edit and rewrite,

reread and recall 

the sound of my grandmother’s voice,

and try to imagine what the grandfather I never met 

would have sounded like.

I wish they were here.

I need guidance.

Mom needs guidance.

 

Sorry Mom,

but I can’t look at you right now,

not like this.

not here.

I don’t want to remember this version of you.

I don’t want to be reminded of your raspy, rattling breath, 

your almost grey, thin fingers, 

circulation waning, 

your once lovely, cloud-like white hair 

unkempt and askew 

against your pillow.

 

Is it wrong to detach? 

Is it a sin?

Is self-preservation a fallacy or a survival skill? 

Is wanting to be home with a big, fat bottle of wine 

instead of here, 

in this dismal, suffocating room 

filled with the stink and sting 

of death and desperation 

wrong?

 

I cannot look at your face. 

I’ve served you. 

I’ve paid bills for you. 

I’ve fought for your dignity. 

I’ve been your advocate, your secretary and your personal aide 

for years. 

I’ve done every deed you’ve asked for. 

But now 

I can’t look. 

 

I have to save myself. 

You’re changing before my eyes 

from a normal complexion to a whiteish grey. 

I tell Joan, 

who tells me to go find a nurse.

I bolt fast

down the hall.

Your favorite nurse is off today so the substitute guy will have to do. 

Standing frozen in the hallway,

I look at the wreath I made for your door. 

Artificial flowers and beads in assorted colors,

festive with joy. 

I think about your houseplants:

where will I put them tonight? 

Do plants actually understand about these matters? 

What’s taking so long in there? 

I won’t peek in. 

I can’t look.  

I don’t want a last memory to be “that memory”. 

I text my brother 

And my husband 

And my kids. 

Before the two nurses emerge from the room,

I know.

 

I never actually saw you die.

I never held your hand or talked to you as it was happening.

I was afraid.

You weren’t you anyway.

Is that an okay excuse?

I just couldn’t look

and try to carry on with that image.

 

So instead,

I’ll see you in photos, 

as I savor your open-face sandwich recipe,

and while lighting the ceramic Christmas tree.

I can see you whenever I drive by the old house we lived in, 

whenever I pet a dog,

or if I happen to hear a Barry Manilow song, 

or use your old Siesta Key drink cozy.

randomly discover one of the rubber lizards the kids used to hide and surprise you with, 

while enjoying a chilled glass of Chardonnay, 

or perhaps hear the mournful call of an owl from the trees out back,

and always,

always during a gloriously colorful sunset. 

 

 

Comments

[humanbeansradio]

OOF. This one hits me. Very authentic, very well done.

[adoptedwriter]

Thanks!

[shirebound]

My gosh, what a stunning and moving piece. Every word is a gem. I'll never forget this.

[adoptedwriter]

Wow! Thanks!

[bsgsix]

Well, this one is so very relatable - what a gut-punch of haunting lines.

This one in particular grabbed me: "Is self-preservation a fallacy or a survival skill?"

You know - I wonder about that all the time. And just when I think I know the answer, I find out there rarely IS a clear-cut answer.

This is well done, friend. <3

[adoptedwriter]

Thanks so much! Hope you had a great birthday!

[mallorys_camera]

This is really powerful. Well done.

[adoptedwriter]

Thanks!

[muchtooarrogant]

It's so important to hold close and cherish the memories that embody a person to us. Them at their best, their happiest. Well written!

Dan

[adoptedwriter]

Thanks, Dan!

[krispykritter]

This was me several years ago in so many ways. Very very real.

[adoptedwriter]

Hugs. Thanks!

[kandigurl]

Beautiful and sad. Impossible choices, your well being or being with the dying. You presented this very well!

[adoptedwriter]

Thanks!

[thephantomq]

This is one of the best things you've written. Very heavy, but very real. <3

[adoptedwriter]

Wow! Thank you! I’m honored.

[roina_arwen]

Beautifully written.

[adoptedwriter]

Thanks!

[drippedonpaper]

As a mother, if the narrator in the poem were my child, I would say, yes, please leave.

In every way in life, I want to spare them pain. If/when I am dying, my biggest hope is that they get out there and keep living, enjoying life for me.

Hugs, hugs, hugs!

[adoptedwriter]

Thanks! Definitely!

[imafarmgirl]

I love where you list all the things you've done for her and then say But now I can't look.

I also love how you will remember her with every sunset.

This is beautiful and raw enough to be real and from the heart.

[adoptedwriter]

Thank you!

[ofearthandstars]

Oh, P, I just want to give you a hug. I opted to stay in the room with my mom, and sometimes I struggle with those last memories. I don't think I would go back and change it, but I also understand the need for others to take a different path, and I think about whether I would take that path going forward. I think our parents would be okay with our choices in those moments.

You did a really lovely job setting this up and tackling the complicated feelings. The last stanza is such a very beautiful recollection of her and your relationship. ♥

[adoptedwriter]

Thanks so much!

[miintikwa]

Beautiful.

[adoptedwriter]

Thanks!

[halfshellvenus]

I really understand the dilemma between wanting to be there for someone and at the same time not being able to bear it. It's a heartbreaking situation. :(

[adoptedwriter]

Thanks.

[bleodswean]

hugs hugs hugs

[adoptedwriter]

Hugs.

[lapis_lazuli615]

I know my mother is slowly turning into this husk that I don't recognize, and I'm so far away that I cannot be there to hold her hand.
After attending the death of my husband, I know that even just being in the room is an honor, and I wish I could be there for her.

[adoptedwriter]

I’m so sorry about your husband!

[pixiebelle]

This was so painful and raw. Your words really hit hard here. Well done.

[adoptedwriter]

Thanks!

[adore]

Watching a parent age is so anxious and harrowing. And grief is even harder. *hugs*

[adoptedwriter]

It sure is. Thanks.

[gardeningatnight]

I've not been in the position to have to choose whether to be in the room with someone who is dying, but I certainly can see how challenging that choice would be. I did choose to "say goodbye" to my father's deceased body before he was cremated, and ultimately it left me feeling unsettled more than a sense of closure. I opted not to see my brother when he passed... So, not quite the same, but I think it gives me a glimpse into your experience.

I'm glad you're able to embrace the memories of life.

[adoptedwriter]

When I saw my mom’s mom at the funeral home, I was 19, and it was incredibly disturbing. I decided then that if I could dodge seeing an actual dead person ever again I would.

[wolfden]

Well done. Sometimes people wait until the people with them aren't watching.

[adoptedwriter]

True. Thanks.

[inchoatewords]

Very raw and real.

[adoptedwriter]

Thanks!

[murielle]

You describe it perfectly.

First my grandmother, then my mother. It is this, and then they are gone. And no, they are not themselves anymore. The space they occupied is empty even though the body remains.

Very well done, P! Very well done. ❤❤❤

[adoptedwriter]

Thank you, M!

[tonithegreat]

This was beautifully done. I wouldn’t have thought to relate this to the prompt but it is a really great fit. I’m so sorry for how hard it has been, but I think a lot of the time when we let it be difficult we really are doing our best.

[adoptedwriter]

Thanks

[alycewilson]

Your experience was much the same as mine. In his final moments, I didn't know what was happening and was quiet. The last thing I did was adjust his pillows so his hand, which had been floating in the air near his head, had somewhere to rest. Perhaps that last bit of comfort was enough.

[adoptedwriter]

I’ve heard the hand in the air thing is common. Thanks.

[scribblesinblue]

I was talking a bit today with a friend who used to be a hospice chaplain. This sounds very familiar.

[adoptedwriter]

Thanks.