New poem: Pneumonia

About the last few months...

My father

After he fell, he crawled, his bed

an agonising hour away. Next morning,

he wanted nothing more than water.

The ambulance was quick and smooth,

but admission took forever. In ED, we watched

as the trolleys trundled slowly by.

Later, a ward, a bed of his own. Floor 5,

visiting hours, the path to his room

trodden into the base of my skull.

Two weeks of partial progress, then collapse.

Called to Hutt Hospital to watch him fade away.
He rallies, asks about the cricket;

I tell him, smile, hold his hand. He fades again.
“It isn’t looking good,” he says. I nod. The nurses

whisper, “Sleep somewhere close at hand.”

The call comes at 5am. By the time I’ve dressed

and driven over, it’s too late. Five minutes earlier,

he left his ninety-four years of life behind.

They leave me with his body and the gentle push

to clear the room, remove the corpse, pave the path

that starts with mortuary and ends in funeral.



An interlude

So much work. The funeral went well,

after that scare about the payment. The estate:

he chose wisely, bringing the professionals on board.

And his house. It seemed so bare, until we had

to empty it inside a month – that deadline

self-inflicted, an own goal worthy of the Phoenix.

So many journeys in his little car, brave tiny engine

conquering the motorway. Emptying Naenae,

filling Mt Victoria with clutter and memories.

Then me

As soon as we finished, pneumonia got me too,

grace note to a hard spring cold, breath short

and shallowing, heart racing to keep up.

Ambulance, hospital. Gentle and angry nurses,

kindness and rough treatment. A doctor who finally -
finally! – paid attention. Antibiotics prescribed

and a day later I’m discharged, back home

confused, dependent and weak, showing all

the self-control of a fretful baby.

Now perhaps I’m two or three. Emotions

flare and burn and dim. In the sunshine,
I take small steps, sit down, cry

at small and stranger things. A gradual

recovery, while outside, the world

points birds and insects at my ears,

suggests I could be getting on with things,

tests the limits of my energy, invites me to rejoin

the long descending trudge towards my end.