Six Months

Six months ago today, (E.S.T) . . .

Michael is in the hospital. Ive written this poem, (for lack of a better word.) Now I'm sitting beside his hospital bed, facing his back, working on it. (I only know this because the date is typed on the copy I'd printed to take with me to the hospital.)

He is facing the window, where the big tree at the entrance to the hospital is labouring under the weight of an encasement of ice.
Neither will last till morning.

We don't talk. I have him cranked on morphine so he will not be in pain. I never want him to be in pain again. He has been made comfortable facing the window. I can't sit on that side of his bed because that will position me beside the radiator and I can't take the heat.

I've already had pneumonia guy removed from what passes for I.C.U. in this community hospital. I've already rattled the bars on the empty bed beside him until the alarmed nurse said, "What's the matter with you?"

"I want to know what's wrong with him. I think he has leukemia!"

"He doesn't have leukemia. The Doctor will fill you in. He's making his rounds."

I get that if I misbehave I'll have to leave, so I take a valium, sit back down and work on this thing some more.
Michael says, "Are you crying?"
I say, "Yes."

I haven't looked at this since he and his tree broke down and died.

It isn't very good but this is all it'll ever be. I can't touch it, not even to fix a grammatical error. I'm going to have to let it stand. This is my six month tribute to my late man.



Poor Me

or

If It’s Christmas This Must Be I.C.U.

I’ll bring you the poisonous plant
(poisonous for the cat)
the poinsettia from my Dad,
same as before.

This time I don’t have to worry
about paying for parking,
because we don’t have a car!
But it’s hard to get a cab this time of year.

Poor me.

Bell cut off our internet.
Yeah, behind all the ISPs
lurks Ma Bell.

I called the techie super nerd
and asked him to fix it
but he said he can’t.

I said, “What if I threaten to kill myself?”
I said, “I’m a writer, I could pen a piece for the Globe and Mail.”
I said, “My husband’s in the hospital, we get paid by e-transfer.”

He said he had no opinion on any of that.
(Not even the suicide threat. Stupid boy.)
I hope we get it back before Christmas,
Seems all my real friends aren’t here.

Twenty years in this two bit town
I can’t get a ride to the hospital?

Poor, poor me.

I’m no poet.
I don’t call you Felix.
I call you “Boss” most of the time.
Sometimes Mikola.

OH MIKOLA DON’T GO.

I taught you that anger is a valid emotion.
It’s okay to laugh out loud.
You can love without risking the cheap tricks
of women who want you to change.

You taught me that a man
could know me, really know me
and love me all the time,
and say “I adore you,” and “I never lie,”
and I could believe him, love him back
and not risk the terrible tricks
of men who want to change me.

C’mon sweetheart,
we’ve been here before.
Okay, the ten good years you promised me are up
but you know I always want more.

Come home come home
We (that stupid cat and me) can’t be a family without you.
I made stew! I cleaned up all your blood!
I’ve never had a problem begging,
look at me, so “decorative”
down on my knees,
I beg you and baby Jesus and God and Bob and Zeus and all
the big guys you don’t believe in.
Come home.

Hey Boss! We forgot to get married!
But we never forgot to be in love.

Lucky, lucky me.



Dec.21, 2:50 a.m.

T.O.D. Dec. 22, 6:20 a.m.
Last words: “I’ve had enough. I’m going now.”

Fallen

Half the trees in this town are dead. The ice-storm glazed their branches with layer after layer of glistening snow until the weight of all that beauty caused them to crack completely. The glittering ground is littered with dead debris. A natural disaster.

I came home last night. I was exhausted. They said I needed to take care of myself. I listened. I should not have come home. I shouldn’t have listened.

Passed out on the bed with the cordless receiver in my hand. The snap of dying trees punctuated my dreamless sleep until I awoke. The window lit up like a solid neon sign. A flash of orange, unlike anything I’d ever seen. Is the entire town under siege? I thought this was a private war. Who would drop a bomb on an innocent little Canadian town? Right before Christmas, too. What heartless terrorists have targeted us?
The clock stopped torturing me with time. No power.

But I must be connected to the alien ship! My fiancé was taken aboard twenty-four hours ago. The aliens, in their blue uniforms, are torturing him. What have I done? Why am I here?

The land line. I fetched it from the emergency supplies kit and plugged it in. There is a dial tone. Mr. Bee, my sister and I called it when we were kids. That was many years ago. That moment, when Mr. Bee buzzed at me, was days, no, hours ago. I listened to the trees die until I passed out again. Woke to the ringing of the telephone. And then I knew. The aliens will not release him after all.

Taxi was waiting when I burst out the front doors of the apartment building, panting from running down many flights of stairs. Don’t slip goddam it! The taxi company had prioritized me. Everyone needs a taxi this time of year. It’s the holiday season! The town was dark; no twinkling lights for anyone. As it should be. Just the sparkle of frozen snow where the headlights granted it a festive spot dance.

I was too late. Because I never should have left. They let me see the carcass. Almost all the tubes were removed, but the catheter was still in place. He hated that thing. I examined him. He was bruised; the evidence of torture was everywhere. The weight of all that pain broke him. I sat with the body, for no good reason. He wouldn’t have liked it but he wasn’t there to forbid it. I did not pray.

The deadly silence was shattered by the crack of branches, loud as claps of thunder. The giant tree at the entrance of the ship had broken. I watched with dull amazement. Was this for him? For me? Should I be grateful for this obvious metaphor: even the strongest living creature can be brought down by the force of nature. I could have laughed. No . . . I did laugh. How was it possible that this all happened at the very same time? Was I being mocked, or comforted? Did any of it have anything to do with me? Probably not. Not even the dead thing; not really.

I took his medic alert bracelet and left.

“Daddy died,” I tell the cat. I fall on the bed. If I sleep, I’ll have to wake up and remember. I don’t want to forget, not even long enough to get some rest. I cry in anguished bursts. This isn’t happening. This thing that happened isn’t happening. I sit up. All I have to do is find him.

Grope my way around the apartment. My hands press hard to the wall, for support. If I have to, I’ll search for him on my knees, but I don’t. I can stay upright, with the walls, the furniture, for help. How is it that this place has magically doubled in size? But he’s here somewhere, I just have to keep my eyes peeled. He isn’t here. He was an atheist. He isn’t anywhere. Just gone. My eyes don’t like being peeled. They fill with tears.

Oh I’m so silly. He’s in a drawer in the bowels of the Mother Ship. I need to go back there and visit him again. It’s common sense.

Or not. This must be the thing called grief. I make my way back to the bedroom. Need to remember that phrase, “make my way.” Use it properly, in the future, or maybe not at all.

Christ, how can it be that there are any branches left? Yet the noise draws me to the window. Interesting, the dead tree, where the hawks live, stands tall. You’d think it would be the first to fall but you’d be wrong.

The medic alert bracelet is on the bed. My first Christmas gift for him. It’s white gold, diamond cut. We laughed at the idea of him wearing jewelry. He loved it. He loved me. The bracelet slips easily onto my wrist. My tattoo, “M” for Michael, goes well with white gold. I rub the tattoo. I kiss it. He isn’t here.

It’s dark. The neon light that lit my window was the generating station blowing up. The great trees on King Street took it out when they collapsed. My taxi driver said so. The town has no power. We are all powerless. This much has been made very clear to me. I get it, okay? This is my only prayer.

So I stand and watch the trees snap and die. Between these sharp punctuations, everything is silent but the steady beat of my treacherous, broken heart. I want the noise to stop.

All pictures are of the Ontario December 2013 Ice Storm

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