Print PagePneumonia Admission, 10 Y.O. F
Susan Palwick
susanpal@aol.com
You've been here before
in asthma's chokehold,
struggling against
the strangling creature that
steals your breath, struggling too
against the grown-ups’
tubes and needles, the cotton gown
that means you have to stay,
prisoner even after the medicinal mist,
the one thing you lean into:
it smells funny, but it helps.
You’ve come and gone for years,
your father says, but not with this.
Today we’re sending you upstairs
with a new ailment, rollicking
wet monsters in your lungs.
It takes five people to hold
you down for the IV:
your stricken parents, two calm techs,
the nurse who cradles
your head between her hands,
who will not let you turn
to see the needle.
"Look at me now, sweetheart.
Look at me."
All the hands are warm
and steady. If you’re lucky,
you'll remember the heat those hands
gave off, soothing the sting
of sharp metal. You'll remember
those who held you in your pain.
You'll know that terror as embrace,
not punishment.
If you're lucky,
you’ll remember how their eyes
met yours and didn’t flinch,
how love stays stubborn
even when it suffers too, its grip
tenacious.
About the Author
Susan Palwick is associate professor of English at the University of Nevada, Reno, where she also teaches at the medical school. She is a volunteer ER chaplain at a local hospital.
Published: March 12, 2009