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Wednesday's Woe
Grief is a “No Man’s Land”
The following poem was written almost a year ago when we were 2 1/2 years into our grief over the loss of our once-lively, vibrant nineteen-year-old daughter.
My handicapped brother had just been diagnosed with a very dangerous case of aspiration pneumonia and hospitalized in Intensive Care in a hospital in Athens, Georgia. We were able to go and spend several weeks with him, keeping the overnight five- to six-hour shift. When we weren't at the hospital with him, we stayed in an apartment in the basement of my mother's house where we could be alone to focus on our grieving.
It was hard for anyone (except my brother and his wife) to understand why we needed such massive amounts of time to be alone, quiet, and grieving...
Nobody has a clue;
Living in Nightmare’s Quicksand
Is pulling you under, and there’s nothing you can do.
“It’s great you have the kinda job
where you can go and help your (sick) brother” . . .
(I really hate to be macabre,
as I’m thrilled I’m available to hover over my sick brother,
but neither of us is in any position even to hold down a regular job!)
Grief is a “No Man’s Land”
Nobody gets it, and nobody can,
Not even us grievers who live in the land
Can have even a clue how to live in this zoo…
It’s like we’re cattle who’ve been burned with a terrible brand,
Refuges who’ve been banished, from Life’s homeland been banned,
Foreigners thrown on a tour never wanted, never planned,
Where no one knows our language, so we’re not welcomed to Life’s mainland.
And while others are living a Life that is grand
Where their children are thriving in their own dreamland,
And they’re wondering what must we have done to receive Death’s remand,
And why in the world would someone choose to live in Grief’s gory-black quicksand,
And why can’t we climb out, and enjoy Life’s-Emerald-Coast bright-white sand?
…So we’re left in Grief’s “No Man’s Land”
Where we cry and we grieve and we grieve and we cry, hoping for a breakthrough
So we can imitate Life, go through the motions, and pretend to make-do,
And strive–if not thrive—to just survive—
Death’s Cold Winter in Grief’s makeshift, drafty Lean-To...
While civilians look on, question, and start to connive...
Though from our loved ones, we’re Death-deprived,
Can’t we just be thankful we’re alive,
And if we work hard, can't we surely contrive
A way to stop our nosedive
Back into Nightmare’s Quicksand
In the Center of Grief’s “No Man’s Land”
Where Death sears its mark, its terrible brand
That sets us apart from the Best and the Blessed of the Land...
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