As a family we are becoming more used to the thought of Janet’s inevitable death. Different members grieve differently, and here is a poem I have written today, in “blank verse” of iambic pentameters:

“The Waiting Room”

And so, we wait, till Janet breathes her last.

We ask the doctors, each one as they come,

“How long?” They answer, seemingly as one,

“We can’t be sure, some days, or even hours.”

 

We discuss her medication, has it changed?

Not much, it seems to work for pain control;

we feel that “top up” doses are the way

to deal with pain that’s “breaking through”.

 

They ask about ourselves, our state of mind:

we say “Okay”, to put them off the scent.

Anticipating loved one’s death is hard,

but not uncommon, universal more.

 

We’ve grieved for Janet, knowing now she’ll not

come home to Stannington to live, nor ever will.

I will become a solitary widower;

no longer to discuss the day’s events,

 

Or what to do about the Funeral

(which J and I debated frequently).

I have an undertaker in my mind:

when should I contact them? What do I say?

 

We’ve talked about the funeral, she and I,

agreed some hymns, and that our vicar Tim

will lead it, but both brothers wish to speak,

my sister’s more than able, she as well?

 

And then I thought that I would like to speak:

I would of course excuse my tearfulness

as totally to be expected, and

would say that she had far more faith than I.