S O M E T I M E S
A
B R E A K D O W N
is really just
A
B R E A K T H R O U G H
. . .until it’s not . .
I remember mentioning this a few times to patients who have asked me,
“WHY AM I STILL HERE?”

It’s a lopsided
Q U E S T I O N
that has no straight
or crooked answers
just
w O N d e r I n G s
that bring little understandings
and less comfort. . .
which is why
I usually flip the question back to a patient by asking,
“Wow, what a powerful question;
I don’t know. . .
(P A U S E)
WHAT DO YOU THINK?”
When I was asked this question
(again)
this week and I gave the reflective,
“Wow, what a powerful question; I don’t know, what do you think?”
response,
she answered me by saying,
without
RHYME OR REASON:
“WILL YOU JUST HOLD MY HAND”
I told her that she deserved a warm hand
(I really was trying to protect her)
as I went over to wash my hands and then came back and sat down,
and held her hand. . .
no questions
no answers
no rhyme or reason
just held her hand
she closed her eyes and
though I couldn’t make
RHYME OR REASON
I didn’t hear
but just watched her lips move
without a whisper. . .
a prayer
a request
a wish
a hope
a beggar asking for a slice of mercy
with an extra slab of peace. . . ?
and then I felt her grip soften
r e l a x
and she was sleeping
softly
making her breathing in and out
a sacred symphony
with an audience of one. . .

I gently laid her hand down beside her and went back to my workstation
and that’s when the poem found me for the second time this week as I read a beautiful Facebook post by Dr. Mel Davis as he wrote about one of his patients who had not only been infected by COVID-19 but also bacterial sepsis, paralysis, brochopleural fistula, renal failure, chest tubes and long term ventilation and now nearing his end. . .
The poem had already surprised me when I picked up a John Updike book of short stories that I haven’t read in years and it being used as a bookmark, fluttered free
with no
RHYME OR REASON:

Bedside Manner by Christopher Wiseman

How little the dying seem to need-
A drink perhaps, a little food,
A smile, a hand to hold, medication,
A change of clothes, an unspoken
Understanding about what’s happening.
You think it would be more, much more,
Something more difficult for us
To help with in this great disruption,
But perhaps it’s because as the huge shape
Rears up higher and darker each hour
They are anxious that we should see it too
And try to show us with a hand squeeze.

We panic to do more for them.
And especially when it’s your father,
And his eyes are far away, and your tears
Are all down your face and clothes,
And he doesn’t see them now, but smiles
Perhaps, just perhaps, because you are there.
How little he needs. Just love. More love.

And then
without any pen to paper
I recited into my iPhone
without any
RHYME OR REASON:

MY BIRTH

It’s not my first breath 
that matters
It’s the one
Called the last
Which is the truest first

How
Has my life seemed so long
And so short at the same time 

Bury me not
I came from it’s crusty dust
And have been able to 
Sit up and take notice
Countless times
It will be my bones and flesh 
That’ll be turned to ash
But not my imprint
I will settle to the earth
But only after the wind 
Carries me for a while on
It’s never ending breath
Which neither knows 
Inhale or exhale 
Just breath
Which carries me from 
Life
Death
LIFE

S O M E T I M E S
A
B R E A K D O W N
is really just
A
B R E A K T H R O U G H
with no
RHYME OR REASON
(n e c e s s a r y)