Out of kilter

I have discovered that this dying process had created a great imbalance. I am still mourning for Margaret and my dear sister-in-law, Bev, and from letters and conversations with friends I have gathered that I will be missed in much the same way. 

But, I am losing all my good friends, and that's only the half of it. I have lived in this house and garden for twenty years, leaving it since 1999 only twice. In all those years, I have loved the light through the leaves in the changing seasons and at different times of day, that will also go, as will my pets, the books and music that have sustained my life. And even more difficult, I will be losing my memories like the ones of Paul's first breath, his first sneeze and his first yawn. 

You might ask why, in that case, I need to die. But, as it turns out, my weight loss has become so excessive that my key nurse is quite sure I won't make it through to September anyway and I will be also losing the pain, the blurred and cataracted sight and the endurance which I have become too fragile to cope with. 

The third bell

I have sprung a leak, am taking on water.

Perhaps in my sleep, I drifted across

a ragged rock or coral reef.

It's not yet dangerous: no sound

of swooshing in the hold.

But it's only a matter of time.

I have presented myself

with an arbitrary date: forty weeks,

a spiritual pregnancy.

The bell rang for my birth and marriage;

it's time now for the third bell.

I have to learn how to die,

to die with dignity; not sign off 

a snarky, snivelling wretch.

I am practicing stoicism.

I am loving more deeply

the things that matter: visits from friends,

music, light on the walnut tree.

It's been several years since I have seen

the night sky; so I will be taken out 

to drink my fill of moon and stars.

“Virgin namesake, moon-Queen at night fall.”

Or, the Duchess of Malfi's magic words:

“Look you, the star shines still.”

My mind wavers and I wonder at times 

whether I can retain my stubbornness.

But then I remember the hardship

of each days waking,

remember I can no longer consent

to the pain and endurance,

nor transform them into any

meaningful pattern.

I am asked whether I will find it hard

to say goodbye.  But, consider

how many times I have already said it:

feeding, cleaning, dressing myself

turning over in bed

walking, singing, playing the piano,

cooking, stitching my tapestry,

hugging my friends from their or my need.

The list could go on forever.

I have lived, so far, nearly three 

of the forty weeks yet to come.

There will be only one ending,

an ending I must learn to trust.

"...that is the question."

I'm turning into a hardened flirt; 

several hours of every day,

I'm dreaming of surrendering myself.

It's a great temptation.
But, in the meantime, I'm holding 

to the straight and narrow, 

by sharing twilight with a friend

as we talk over the week that's passed;

by delighting in a brass consort,

Venetian music

from four centuries ago.

I delight in feeling connected

to all those who have 

performed, listened to and loved

the same music

for every year of that four hundred.

Thus far, I'm remaining virtuous.

But, winter is coming,

with oppressively leaden skies;

I will be cabin-fevered,

so I'm not making any promises.

Twang

In the end, I stayed in bed only one day and that was hideous on the back  of my head, my arms and legs, not to mention three of the four ulcers which are on my back. Both the nurse and OT wanted me to rest, but not bed-rest. The only problem is, that the hardest part of the day is getting me out of bed. So I came up with a new plan: half a valium, one Panadol and loud Baroque trumpet music to distract me. With their help, I've managed to get up the last three days but, when I'm on the wheelchair, I'm cast.

In normal circumstances the injury I have sustained either from a pinged cartilage or inter-costal muscle or a cracked rib would heal within six to eight weeks. But how normal is M.S.?

However, the pain and the helplessness have not dampened my poetry. Below, are the latest snippets. I'm disappointed that my last poem, "Massacre", appeared in the middle of the Christmas rush as I really wanted to know how other people had fitted the shootings into their belief systems.

I'm very grateful for all the loving support I have received. Because everything is done through an intermediary — holding a landline to my ear, setting up Skype or writing an email— I very rarely initiate, but mostly respond. The blog entries are my way of communicating.

The mathematics of living

Quadratic equations seem not to work

in my case; x = minus b

plus or minus the square root etc

sits uneasily against

achievement, privilege, illness and loss

which cannot be corralled into one pen.

This seems too great an imbalance.

Dumbfounded

I'm running out of metaphors

in the prolonged dispute

with my illness. It's like arguing

with a fundamentalist preacher

who has all the answers, even

before I've framed the questions.

I hate to acknowledge defeat,

especially when it's to do with words

but I must admit

I'm going tongue-tied.