Fresh-water Fish

Heard in passing:

“If your trousers are dry
you can look them in the eye

If not
you’re a goner.”

To Have And Not to Hold

He’s in a bath chair
with his feet raised.
No shoes, only socks,
pillow under his legs
and a blanket
over his knees.

I squeeze my chair
next to
and slightly in front
of his
so that he can see my face
and I can hold his hands.

He doesn’t stand
any more.
His legs are too unsure
and if he were to try
there’d be a high risk
of slipping.

So how do I hold him
like I used to?
How can we stand
face to face
body to body
with our arms around each other?

But I must be content
with this:
the love in his eyes,
his still kind words,
his blown kisses.

Every Afternoon

I used to know him
during every part
of every day.

He brought me breakfast
in bed every morning
for twenty five years.

We had morning coffees,
afternoon walks
and evening talks.

Every night
we slept together
in the same bed.

These days I don’t know how
he starts the day.

Someone else
washes his body.

I don’t see him eating breakfast;
seldom see him eating lunch.

We don’t sit down together
and eat tea

and I never lie beside him
in his bed.

But for an hour or two
every afternoon
I remember him
and he remembers me.

Fresh-water Fish

Today, in the dementia ward
someone was obsessing
about fresh-water fish

and I thought
that’s all of you isn’t it?
Goldfish in your glass bowl:
alive but mainly silent. 

But then

there’s Frank,
who takes his pants off
in the dining room
and talks about golf.

There’s Laura
who speaks in tongues:
like a mantra;
like a lullaby.

There’s Robert
who rolls his walker
forward and back:
clicks bits of pipe together.

There’s Lily
manic, panicky,
who repeats herself
on a fifteen second loop.

There’s Mary
with her doll:
a snarling lioness
protecting her baby.

And then there’s John,
who tells me
“I punched someone
in the face today”
and when I ask why
smiles and says
“Well, he was in the fucking way!”

Not fresh water fish at all,
any of you.
Salt water fish:
swimming in your own infinite ocean.

Kevin

You remembered flying small planes
in the northern territory.
You thumbed through magazines
about aircraft.

One day you watched us
doing a jigsaw.
(the picture on the box of a red spitfire
made you smile).

A week before you died
you tried to enjoy the music
but you were tired
and there were clouds in your eyes.

Maybe that day was a bad day
for flying.

It wasn’t until
a few days later
you judged the conditions to be okay
for take off.

Lara

Lara doesn’t know
that she has dementia
but she is sure that
everyone else
is away with the fairies.

She thinks that David
has an unfortunate face.
She speaks loudly
about the size of his nose
and the red rings around his eyes.

She is appalled by
Mary’s aggression,
the noises Mabel makes,
Emma’s drooling
and Michelle’s repetitive mumblings

She tells Joanne
that she’s a spoilt bitch
and Eric
that he’s a piece of shit.

She doesn’t understand
that these people are her comrades
and there,
with the grace (or otherwise) of god
she also goes.

Karen

Karen is smiling
and her eyes are shining.

She laughs when a carer
takes her hand.

“You’re as bright as a button today
aren’t you?” the carer asks.

“Yeah” says Karen.

“Cos usually
I’m nothing.”

Confusion

This man in the dementia ward
(who is my husband)
often holds the hand
of the woman next to him.

Occasionally
he strokes her hair.

He tells me
“This one’s a good one”
and I agree.

It’s good that he has
a kind companion.

But one day (when I’m there)
he touches her breast
and says “I like this bit of you”.

In the night
I remember this
and wonder

if he knows or cares
that the hair that he strokes
and the breast that he touches
isn’t mine.

DUI

Fizzing.
My brain was fizzing
even beforehand.
Fizzing with thoughts
of death and dementia,
incontinence and deterioration
grief and irritation.

Fizzing.
The lights in the pub, the poker machines:
the bubbles in my first champagne,
my second champagne, my third
and fourth - maybe more
I’m not sure.
Everything was just
fizzing.

Fizzing.
the white lights in my rear vision
mirror;  the red and blue lights – fizzing.
then the hammer horror on my window.
Why didn’t you stop? (Why didn’t I stop?)
and my breath fizzing into the breathalyser.

Then the tears
fizzing.

Fizzing.
The lights outside the watch house,
as I stumble down the path
through the sliding doors
into the waiting room
where the breathalyser
fizzes again.

But on the phone
on the way home
your love
fizzing
down the line.

Dementia Ward Wishlist

Anne wants to find her handbag
Keith wants a nice cup of tea and a piece of toast
Cynthia wants to talk to people
Denis wants to see his grandchildren
Elkan wants to be left alone
Keith wants a nice cup of tea and a piece of toast

Marta wants to marry my husband
Keith wants a nice cup of tea and a piece of toast
Geoff wants bananas and icecream
Polly wants her grandparents to visit
Isabelle wants her baby.
Keith wants a nice cup of tea and a piece of toast.

Tiger wants his Harley Davidson
Keith wants a nice cup of tea and a piece of toast
Rex wants to check that he’s locked the garage
Tess wants to do up the zip on her jacket
Louis wants to whistle
Keith wants a nice cup of tea and a piece of toast.

John wants to grind his teeth.
Keith wants a nice cup of tea and a piece of toast.
Peter wants to go home
Joe doesn’t want to get dressed
Richard wants to die
Keith wants a nice cup of tea and a piece of toast.