I would rage against the machine of medicine at times, when promises and cures were offered, yet our technology was still in its' infancy. Too much suffering was prolonged, further crises were created, personal choices were stomped beneath the feet of modern science.


His Last Precious Breath

The pain and the suffering
He had to endure,
In light of his age
And slim hopes for a cure,
Was out of proportion
To the health he retrieved,
It is quite clear to me
The man was deceived.

If his primary problem
Was only his heart,
If he wasn't getting senile
Then he might have had a start,
A few good years left
To enjoy like a man,
With dignity and respect
But it wasn't the plan.

Near syncopal episodes
But never passed out,
He had a one room apartment
And short mailbox route,
He finally called the doctor
Because his kids said, "Dad, we care",
Now he's dying in the hospital
And at his bedside; no one's there.

Feeling too damned guilty
To come visit each day,
Knowing full well
That they said ok,
"Say yes to the doctor, Dad
Because he knows what's best",
He's an expert in his field
And believes he is blessed.

Indeed, he's an expert
In the parlay of words,
He could romance the feathers
From a large flock of birds,
And he told this old man
He had an appliance,
That would solve all his problems
A gift of great science.

When he signed the consent
The doctor outlined his risk,
He minimized problems
His delivery was brisk,
"Do you have any questions"
The old man replied, "No",
Just a sharecroppers son
He was illiterate and slow.

But he'd lived a good life
And deserved a good death,
Until this conscience-less doctor
Stole his last precious breath,
Now he's destined to die
With a long muted scream,
Another high tech victim
Of the American dream.

Fibril_late; 10/93