Neurology- 10:00 a.m.
On. Off. Curling toes. That's the way the morning goes.
Swallow. Choke? Focus each eye. I'm passed the stage of asking "why?"
Accept. Cope. Face the day. What will he hear of what I say?
Life will seem simple as we talk. Then twenty steps to watch me walk.
But what about those things unsaid? The fear that lingers in my head?
What about the tear that dropped when
I couldn't find a seat,
and a Herculean effort
is what I used to move my feet?
What about the smile that often hides behind the mask?
How can we plan our future? How many questions can we ask?
What about my prayer that Don will find the strength to cope?
What about tomorrow? Will I leave with any hope?
Will he listen?
He pushed. He pulled. He watched my gait. He directed a question to my mate.
He said "this, Rita, I cannot change."This I find a little strange.
Here you could use an extra kick...add half a pill, might do the trick.
And if that works we'll look again to find more "on time" we can win.
Normal isn't in our range. But some frustration we can change."
What about the words not said? The silent things I fear and dread?
He's met the fear that stalks at night and offers words to ease our fright.
He heard the tear that fell last week. He's heard the prayer for strength we
seek.
To this he said "You're not alone. I'll answer questions on the phone."
We left that day with goals reset. We found what we were after.
I found the faith and confidence that I needed to make laughter.
As daylight breaks the darkness, I feel a tear roll down my cheek.
I say a silent thank you for the future's not so bleak.
He doesn't promise miracles. He doesn't bribe us with false hope.
But reaches out with understanding, with compassion and shares concerns.
Because he takes the time to listen.....
Respect from families is what he earns.
Rita Weeks
