poem

Typical Tuesday

It happens so fast. And then it’s over. Change is the constant. Every room on rounds is a different patient. Tell me why you ended up here. My husband brought me.  I called 911. My sister said enough is enough. I put all the details in my note. Yes, it’s not fair. Suffering is rarely earned. I think I can help. Here’s your options. This is what I think. Even if you pay attention, or want to, it's too much to keep track of. I see everything in each shifting moment. If I try to remember it, I lose it. Stay with me. Don’t leave. But I have to. Someone else needs me. The OR is calling. Patient on the table. The third hernia. The second gallbladder. When I get home you ask about my day. I say it was fine. It was the usual. Nothing special. Typical Tuesday. You nod your head and the kitchen ticks with the existence of appliances. You start to make dinner.  I go through the mail.  The absence of details is a chasm we are falling into. I’m not doing it on purpose. It almost feels like weightlessness. I wish you had been there, taking notes. I wish you were there to see. But there’s so much that happens. How do you expect me to remember all that? For most of it, I was barely there. It frisked me like a subway thief and hopefully got what it needed. What are we here for but to give it all away? I have more than I deserve. Meanwhile I’m already out the door, on my way to the next. So I go home and write. The only difference between the floor and the ceiling is the weak force of gravity. Whatever I get down saves fragments of my own life.  Weeks later, it’s like reading a stranger’s journal. If someone else reads it, well, maybe it happened. If it’s you then I know it’s real.

7/21/26