Away With Worry: Death
Illness is a woman’s province, says Angela Black in this sombre poem.
The old lady was dying;
"nothing more can be done" said the doctor
"nothing more, and she'll be gone before morning"
And then the doctor left
The Old Lady's daughter, exhausted with many nights and many days of vigil,
was given a sedative in her tea by her husband, she fought it but she slept.
The Old Lady's granddaughter stayed in the room - her mind and body's
concentration centred on administering whatever help-and comfort - nerved
with pity and dread.
Downstairs, the father read his paper: illness is a woman's province
The child has courage and is capable and willing,
And the father went in bed.
How long? How long dying?
Many times her heart stopped; then, impelled by terror, eyes distended, clawning
the sheets, wildly clutching the child, regained her breath.
"No! No! Help me!"
And then drawn back again sunk in death. The child counted. Each interval
longer. This time - this time - let this time be death.
The father came in the morning,
Carried the sagging limp and hardly-surrendered body down the narrow stair,
hands still clenched. Terror frozen in dead eyes.
"you did well" said the father
"I'm glad your mother was spared from seeing the finish"
"I'm glad" said the child; but every day she lives it and every night she dies.
