What a difference thirty-six years makes. . .

Sitting in the hospital yesterday with Ellen, waiting for news of Jerry’s surgery, I reflected on the motorcycle accident that put him in the need of surgery.  One day walking around; the next day, lying in a hospital bed with a cracked back, three broken ribs, and a punctured lung.  What a difference a day makes.

Jerry’s sister calls, and one of his nieces.  Ellen explains what’s happening, and I think, too bad he’s never had children.  I wonder what my son would do, if I needed surgery and long-term care.  I shake my head.  I’ve told him many times, Don’t give up your life for me.  That’s not your job.  I pushed him to go to Mexico, to college in another state, away, away.  To live his own life.  But truth told:  If I had to have surgery of the magnitude that Jerry faced yesterday, knowing that my offspring paced in the waiting room might comfort me.  I glanced over at the little gaggle of fifty-something sisters waiting for news of their mother’s surgery, sitting with their grandmother, and a dutiful son-in-law.  I shamelessly eavesdropped on their calls to distant, worried family members.  Mama’s in surgery, we’ll call you when we know something.

I sat down at my desk to write, this morning, still ruminating on how fast one’s life can turn around or slide downward into an abyss of hopelessness; still thinking about those grown daughters sitting vigil yesterday across from where Ellen and I did the same.  My eyes fell on my old poetry journal, and I lifted it from the stack of legal pads on which it rested.  Its pages slid from the broken binding and opened on a poem dated 05 April 1980, almost precisely thirty-six years ago.  As I read it, I found  myself wondering what I might have written had I known that the poem’s subject would leave me five years later.

Then I read the last line, and I gasped.  I cannot  understand its emotion; I wonder what I saw in my mother’s eyes that day, in that Central End vegetarian restaurant, over a dish of tofu and a bean sprout salad.    What a difference a day makes.  Or five years.  Or thirty-six.

 

From A Daughter

What do I say to this woman
sitting across from me
over a society lunch?

What do I say to she
who changed my diapers;
and coaxed me through
a preadolescent limp
and post-pubescent cramps?

How do I treat someone
who learned to drive at forty
fought the maybe-giants
organized picnics
when she wasn’t at work
or scrubbing floors
or despairing?

There are no words for one
who is too familiar
with emergency rooms
airports
jails.

So I sit, choking on idle conversation,
about the silver market and over-sprouted beans
neither of which I understand.
If I appear tense
it is because I also choke
on unexpected devotion
and overwhelming sorrow.

©C. Corley, 05 April 1980

It’s the eighth day of the twenty-eighth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

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2 thoughts on “What a difference thirty-six years makes. . .

  1. Genevieve

    It is true – the importance of loved ones being there when you are going through something big. I’m sure he must value your presence in that waiting room even more because you are there – even without the connection of blood that ties children to hospitals in such times. We sometimes think about that – it is not why we wanted children, but it is definitely something we think about since we were not able to have them. When we all have lunch w/ my parents and grandma weekly – when we worry over my mom’s breast cancer DX and try to find ways to offer comfort and support – when we used to visit my grandpa in the nursing home – we think – what will become of us when we can no longer care for ourselves? Of course we will care for each other for as long as we can – but then… If one of us goes first -the other will be truly alone in this world. No one to talk to our Drs if we are unconcious and make decisions, make sure we are getting the best treatment. No one to make sure the nursing home staff are answering the call button (and if no one is checking, sometimes they won’t)… It is a morbid thought -one that is not life affirming – so we don’t go there often, but it is a thought. As we hit middle age and parts of our bodies start to fail – we think about it more -and even sometimes say those thoughts out loud.

    Reply
    1. ccorleyjd365 Post author

      When I see you two together, I think of all the children whom I see in Juvenile Court who need new parents and I wonder. . . perhaps something will arise in your life; and you will take in one of those little sparrows.

      Reply

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