Cancer Ward

A poem about my Mother

Cancer Ward


This is a poem.

This is a poem about walking.
This is a poem about getting the train.
This is a poem about getting a bus.
This is a poem about getting a taxi.

This is a poem about cancer.
This is a poem about Haematology and
	Oncology.
About walking through automatic doors,
Where people are in wheelchairs with 
          scarves on their heads;
Where their skin is pale, devoid of colour; sucked dry.
Where young healthy people push old, 
          washed-out sketches.

This is a poem where I don’t stop at reception. I have
Parking for the month and push through double doors.
This is a poem where I know where I’m going in the hospital.
Where I turn down a corridor and the ward is to my left.

Press a button and immediately there is Death. It is in the
Air and the Beds and the Wheelchairs and the Sheets and the 
IV and the MRI and the CT and the Sick Bags and the RED 
Plastic bags for soiled clothes.

This is poem about being in your own room, with your
Own toilet and a nice view and cards and visiting every day
And well-wishers and happy nurses and horrible hospital food,
And “How are you Feeling” and “We’ll get through this”
And you falling asleep and sitting by the bed reading a book
While nurses beyond the door cry,
          and wheelchairs endlessly pass by.

This is a poem about coming home and being on meds,
And an app which records which meds and when to take them. 
This is a poem about buying a new wheelchair and 
          pushing you around town,
And cooking you dinner and watching television together, 
          and getting you
Ready for bed and making sure you’d taken your pills 
          and emptied your stoma.

 This is a poem about ringing 999 when you 
            don’t know where you are and you’re scared
Of the new en-suite we put in for you and 
          you refuse to use it and your temperature is 
High, because I used the ear thermometer in the 
          morning like I always do.
This is a poem about you not wanting to go back to hospital, 
          and convincing you
It’s for the best.

This is a poem about horrible hospital food and 
          you not eating, and getting thin
And being moved from bed to bed at all times of the night. 
This is a poem about you being treated like an object. 
          Injected, with bruises all up your arms
And doctors coming in at any time and telling you what’s 
         wrong with you in medical
Jargon, and you don’t understand, and 
This is a poem about being asked to write it all down, and 
          when I look it’s all gibberish.
This is a poem about doctors making mistake after mistake, 
          and promising, but never delivering.

This is a poem about family being ushered into a room with 
          a coffee machine and children’s pictures 
On the walls, and being told the wrong thing.
This is a poem about false hope. About doctors. About Radiation. 
          About pushing you in a wheelchair 
As you slowly faded away and nothing anyone does can help you

This is a poem about you realising you can’t go home. 
          That you’ll be in hospital
For much longer.
This is a poem about being told you have brain cancer and 
          your daughter asks you for money for a new car
While you’re lying in bed, with the curtain drawn while the
           patient next to you screams in pain.

This is a poem about a well lit room, and you in bed.
And we come and see you and you seem okay. 
You tell me to go on holiday and not to worry.
You’ll be fine. Go. Enjoy yourself. You need a break.
I’ll be there when you get back.

This is a poem about getting a phone call in Poland
From the hospital that your mother has got worse
That she has refused her pills and can barely speak.
This is a poem about getting a taxi. A plane. And a coach.
This is a poem about getting a phone call at 8:55 am whilst you’re
On a coach two hundred miles away from the hospital.

This is a poem about losing my mother to cancer.
This is a poem about loss and grief and anger. 

This is a poem

Carved and Drawn by the Author