Gin and Lingerie

My father had a heart attack on friday,
while I was day dreaming a poem about
gin and lingerie, that I will never write.
I compose in my head on walks thru the park,
late at night, as I stare through the window
with the broken drape, that I could fix but don't.

On the Saturday morning, I flew on the air ambulance,
they had room, I sat next to the Pilot, his name was Neil,
my father on a stretcher, a transport nurse and a doctor
who came from Jamaica, I forget his name, which is a shame
he gave me a hug when we arrived, my father shackled,
a catheter and wires and bruises from the emergency treatment.

So there I am, roomless (not quite, I booked at 5.30 am in saturday morning,
love you bookings.com), in a city that I haven't been to
for 30 years give or take, gesticulating to a nurse that
he really doesn't need a catheter and not really knowing,
there was snow as we landed, but the thaw is in.
I open his overnight bag; you can't take much on the
air ambulance but he has no pyjama bottoms and no shoes,
is that a portent, I actually didn't think that at all.

My son arrives an hour after we have got there, blessings!
He is convinced, even after the nurse gives a map
that I will get lost, he forgets that I have lived in several cities
and travelled with the opera, now I am just a country mouse.
We find our way, 20 minutes and blisters (I bought new boots
on the thursday). The All Seasons Guest House, a funny
Victorian Terrace with perilous steps and a room with
a dodgy thermostat, but purple cushions, so I decide I like.

I work through my father, deciding that the nurses are trying
to trick him and see if he has alzheimers, so he speaks in latin
tells them that he has been misdiagnosed but he looks so frail;
Not my rugby blue father, capped, robed, devoted husband,
chain smoker, drinker, heavy handed, emotional, repressed.
Bruised, wired up, twitchy from lack of nicotine and booze.

Its a long way from gin and lingerie, and the fact my car needs
new oil, break pads and I haven't identified that light yet
and I have a disaster for a love life, an 18 year old cat, MS
and blisters on my feet and the only other foot wear I have
is multicoloured socks and the new comfy, sheepskin lined slippers
I bought, the clothes I stand up in, just a spare jumper.

My son and I spend our the saturday evening, and Sunday at the
hospital; there is not a lot to do, my youngest son arrives on
the Sunday afternoon, we go to a pub, my sons tell me
I am fussy with food, because I don't understand how
salmon can arrive with peas and gammon is served with eggs.
Alien food, alien place but wonderful to see my boys
who are broke of course and they love their grandfather.

They leave Monday morning and while my father has a 'procedure'
I look for shoes, buy hair conditioner and a 2nd hand book.
When I get back, he's there, they have performed, announce
that due to emphysema that it is a patch up job. Still
a new lease, while questions remain hanging mid air.

A nightmare back, it takes ages to get drugs, sign outs
last minute heart echo's, waiting, waiting, a co ordinator
tells us that I can fly back with him as I came on the air ambulance
and therefore I am not categorised as having left
bloody beaurocracy! Then a transfer lounge, where you wait
and you wait and you have a flight booked at 7.15 pm and its
now 4 pm with a one and half hour taxi ride, if we don't hit traffic!

Drizzle, getting dark, driving through countryside and its ok
until we hit the crossover, then arrive, no wheelchair,
a ramp, I find a wheelchair, hang two overnight bags,
laptop, handbag and wheel him up a what seems 90 degree angle,
check in, call for special assistance, hit the duty free, find the lifts
end up shouting at him for leaving the chair, get him a baguette.
Flight called, bumpy, a head wind but we arrive and a wheel chair
is waiting but no help, endless corridor to the baggage claim
I end up screaming at him to stay in the chair again. He did
I hang, two bags on the handles, laptop in his lap and push
(why is it all up hill and why are airport wheelchairs built so badly).

This morning, he's smoking again - waited until I was gone
and walked (?) to the shop -

Still I am thinking about gin and lingerie and the shoes I
did eventually buy, he seems quite happy with.

Sour milk in the fridge, no heat in the house but a cat
who follows me and my own bed in a room without
a dodgy thermostat.




Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 573 times
Written on 2013-01-30 at 19:27

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I've been thinking about this, trying to sort it out. Lawrence is right, it is a big, messy poem, and it's spot on. I identify with too much of it, but only in a roundabout way, my mess is a different sort of mess.

There are some awfully nice touches here, honesty and spontaneity can be a writer's best friend. In the end I'm thinking about the shearling slippers, the purple cushions, the MS, and, of course, the gin and lingerie. That, and how simply difficult life can be.
2013-02-06


Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
I enjoyed this, Elle. It's a big, messy poem which perfectly describes how a life sometimes grows big and messy.
2013-02-03


shells
Whew! A day in the life, I love the runaway narrative. You deserve a double gin, ice and lemon with your feet up,(with your new shoes on of course.)
2013-02-01


Brian Oarr
Even when it's sorrowful, your writing is always a joy to read, Elle.

I wish those shoes could have been Louboutin's ... you surely deserved them. :-)

Brian
2013-01-31



Very effective poetic narration of what must have been a very harrowing and stressful experience. It is an interesting idea to write a poem about not writing a poem about something not related to the poem you did eventually write.

Very enjoyable.

William
2013-01-30