Regarding ageing and the tendency for body parts to stretch and sag, as the years roll by.


Eternal Life

Getting old
Is surely hell,
The teeth will rot
And the body smell,
What once was upright
Sags down below,
Where it will stop
Can anyone know?

Now Billy-Bob
In room seventeen,
Can't remember the last time
His privates were seen,
They are buried below
His pendulous gut,
Whereas, there is no mystery
Regarding his butt.

Considering, Berthalinka
In room two eighty-nine,
They say, "When she was young
Oh, she was so fine",
But eighty years later
Her bosom has expanded,
Close-up? You'll be thinking
The Martian's have landed.

Now, open your mind
And rap on this thought,
During youth, we're caught up
In some appearance, we've sought,
But later with ageing
There is a sagging and swaying,
No matter, your discipline
Your flesh is betraying,
Overwhelming your efforts
To camouflage time,
After 70, your body
Will sag in its prime.

Some youth, will be thinking
Eternal life is for me,
Not realizing the possibility
In two-thousand and forty-three,
Where the answer, for immortality
Will be in a Cracker-Jack box,
Declaring, "You must first live
Seven decades on the clocks."

Sure, you can live forever
Amidst the sagging and swaying,
Some will ponder the universe
While others will be praying,
For the answers to live
With each pendulous part,
Eternal life, reconsidered
Buffet, or a' la carte.

Fibril_late;
2/21/09

Vegetative state; locked-in syndrome, etc. There are many names, and fewer mansions. Six years like that, from age 62 to 68. A wonderful husband, brother and daughter. Tube feeding via a passage in the stomach wall. She looked at peace and she was enormously loved, but she didn't move voluntarily. Allowing her to die, should her heart or breathing cease, would be the best for her, because any resuscitative measures, would very likely cause her pain and suffering, and unforgivable emotional anguish to her loved-ones. And merely designating her a "No-code", would in no way, hamper the love and compassion that had supported her all this time.



Vegetative Valentine
 
An alternate universe
By any other name,
A vegetative state
They are one and the same.
 
Locked-in syndrome
Trapped within the mind,
No outward sensibility
Eyes open; are they blind?
 
It is easy to be fooled
That there is an occupied awareness,
And so simple to nurture hope
For the family, in all fairness,
As they gasp when there is movement
Of a toe or a hand,
They will argue, “See there’s proof
You just don’t understand,
But we know that Momma
For sure, will get better”;
They all share the delusion
Down to the letter.
 
We don’t try to discourage
And we offer every amenity,
Your Momma’s not in pain
She’s the picture of serenity,
And with Momma taken care of
There are issues to address,
Let’s talk about you
You’re an emotional mess.  

We’ll call in a chaplain
A shaman or a priest,
A rabbi, or a Wiccan
And we'll bow to the east,
To help you come to terms
With your guilt and your need,
But quite frankly, folks
Why let Momma bleed?

We're compassionate beings
We suffer with your pain,
And a locked-in syndrome
Is a prison in her brain,
If she should cardiac-arrest
Her survival might be worse,
Then your loving support
Will be an emotional curse.

A vegetative state
For six years is quite long,
When she said, she wanted everything
It probably wasn't this song,
Playing day in and day out
At 45 RPM,
There's a disconnect somewhere
With the rest of her brainstem.

Why not embrace
A "No-Code" designation,
It doesn't mean "give-up"
It's just another radio station,
Giving Momma more songs to sing
In her silent, smiling way,
You'll still love her, till that moment
If not more, every single day.

Fibril_late;
2/15/09

Nursing provides so many opportunities for mirth and laughter.........otherwise, we wouldn't survive.

The Rear Approach

She wasn’t given Lactulose
She hadn’t taken immodium,
So what the cause was, I don’t know
When she farted at the podium.

She was talking to her ancestors
Who were apparently next to the bed,
Her farting gas was so toxic
They were thankful, that they were dead.

Mr. Ed and I, were changing her sheets
And I was positioned, at the rear,
Leaning forward, to place the fresh linen
She blasted one, right in my ear,
Luckily, she was only shooting blanks
My ears rang, but nothing was squirted,
I survived without an Incident Report
An industrial accident averted.

If you’re a new nurse and fresh out of school
Please take my words, as a warning,
Cautiously approach the rear of your patient
To avoid any premature mourning.

Fibril_late;
2/3/09

Who hasn't heard about "Tree-man" of Indonesia? He's the fellow from somewhere who has fungal growths that look similar to tree roots, or maybe, the worse possible alien form of toenail fungus on the planet Arcturas!
Well now, even in our fair village, we have our own local Treeman too.

TREEMAN


You may have heard about "Tree-man"
Of Indonesian lore,
His fungal growths so crazy
He can't get out the door,
A scientist from Britain
Has taken pity on the man,
And promised that poor fellow
He'll do whatever he can.

The other night at work
Imagine my surprise,
I saw something in the hallway
I could hardly believe my eyes,
A tree-man kind of fellow
Being admitted to our floor,
His skin was like the bark of Oak
But baby, there was more;
His legs like massive stumps, they were
His hands like wooden platters,
His arms were gnarled, knotted limbs
What else? It hardly matters.

And like the famous weeping willow
He had weeping wounds, galore,
Now he’s the odds-on favorite
To never leave our floor.



Fibril_late;
2/1/09