The Last Time We Talked 2014 Poem by Terry Collett

LAST TIME WE TALKED 2014.

We get to the hospital,
and walk to the ward
where you are, and I
notice straight away
something is wrong:
you're all puffed up
as if someone had
pumped you up with gas.

What's happened to you?
I say. Your sister looks
at you and I can see she
is as shocked as I am to
see you like you are.

You say a few words,
but they're too quiet for
me to grasp. When did
you pass urine last? I say.

You look at me with your
large eyes which seem
larger. This morning I think,
you reply, your voice soft
as if speaking was an effort.

Be back in a moment, I say,
and leave you with your sister
while I go off in search of
a nurse or doctor. Visitors are
coming and going, other
patients sit on beds or in beds,
and I see a nurse in a dark
uniform thinking maybe she's
in charge. I approach her,
and she looks at me. I'm Ole's
father and I am not happy
the way he is being cared for,
I say. Why? What's the matter
with him? She says, eyeing me.

He's all puffed up, he has an
infection of some kind, he can
hardly breathe, and he hasn't
passed urine since yesterday
morning to my knowledge.

She looks at me with frowning
brows: he was all right earlier
when the doctor saw him, she says.

Well he isn't now, I say, he needs
a catheter and something to help
him breath, he's in a bad away, I say.

I can't give an catheter, unless
a doctor tells me to, she says.

Well he needs one soon, I say,
and he can hardly hold the mug
he's drinking from, as his hands
are so puffed up. She looks over
her shoulder. I'll get the doctor
to see him when he's back from A& E,
she says, we're so busy. Well make
sure he does, I say annoyed now,
and on the edge of bellowing out,
but don't. She nods and walks off.

I sigh, and go back you still sitting
there, bent over, on the side of
the bed; your sister goes off,
too upset to remain. Can I get
you anything? I ask. Drink of orange,
you say. I pour you orange and add
water from the plastic jug. I complained
about how you are being treated,
I say. You nod: can you help me
on bed, I need to lie down, you say.

I help you on the bed and arrange
your pillows behind your head.

You slip the orange, then hand it
to me. I put it on the side cabinet.

You lie there staring at your puffed
up hands: I can't eat properly, you say,
my jaw aches as I eat. I look at
your puffed up features. She said
the doc will come see you when
he's done in A& E, I say. You say
nothing. I sit and talk to you about
mundane things, and you reply
gently finding it hard to talk.

Then you close your eyes,
and I say: look I will leave
you now, let you rest. You open
your eyes and say: Ok. I'll be
back tomorrow with Mike,
I say, bring you fresh clothes
and a book. You nod your head,
and I kiss your forehead and I go,
and you close your eyes for sleep.

That memory of that last talk
with you, I will always keep.