A poem by me, Timothy Lu. All rights reserved.
Sitting in a chair that is too wide,
In a room that is too cluttered,
Watching the IV drip from a bag as I watch
My grandfather in a hospital bed staring off into the distance.
Dead? No. Just in his own world fighting off an army of infection,
Trying to break through a blockade of sub-acute stroke.
All the while the harrowing condition of ALS breaks down his body,
His body that is already broken in so many ways.
His will to survive is only surpassed by his love for his family.
For they he lives
So that he can see his grandchildren grow;
But, how much longer does he have?
The fluctuating status reports from day-to-day,
From MRIs and CTs, to a thousand different things.
The only people who know what’s going on,
Even if they keep things so vague as is their way,
Are the doctors. They who watch and observe,
Keenly checking every facet of his health;
However, they are afraid to tell us the truth,
Perhaps he does not have long to live.
Who could have the heart to say such things?
But then, they might be wrong, who knows?
And so I am here,
Sitting in a hospital,
Listening to the rushing sounds of a ventilator breathing,
The dripping of the IV,
The meaningless chatter of nurses,
The sounds of hospital function,
Sitting in a hospital chair,
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