I am heartily sick of being sick.
I sit on my bed for ages with one sock on,
trying to summon up the energy to put the other one on.
My head is dizzy and confused.
I get up,
hoping a reasonable night's sleep
means I'm going to be better,
then after breakfast I have to return to bed.
It mightn't be so bad
if all I had to cope with
was the phlegm clogging up my chest.
But yesterday
I spent six hours in a dentist's chair
trying to breathe with my mouth wide open
and water trickling down my throat
so it feels like I'm drowning,
and all the while a cough is building up in my chest
like a nuclear explosion looking for a space to happen.
I should be going there again today
for two more hours of the same
but I have called in and said I'm not coming.
That done,
I can calm myself and try to sleep.
And oh, I do feel sorry for myself.
I'm a very impatient patient.
I want those who love me
to be patient and understanding
(as they always are)
with me.
Sometimes I feel I need to indulge my self-pity.
Most of all, though,
I am impatient for your presence,
for your smile,
for your hand in mine,
for your body beside mine,
sharing my body's sweat,
woken by my coughing,
ready for my need.
But, most of all,
to walk across the hills together
into a golden sun
whose rays tip the heather blooms
with summer.
March 24-26, 2000
