I posted an open poem about my experiences and those of others and find myself drawn back to it a lot lately, so I am re-posting (which I don’t often do) in case it helps others who are lost in the modern medical machine. (And, I even read it to you!)
Look Into My Eyes.
By Jody Klaire
I sit in corridors for hours alone; I have waited for months to get here.
I must not argue or jump a queue, I must not quarrel or show fear.
I wait for those locked behind closed doors to give minutes of their time;
And hope they listen enough to help, not to be treated like I’ve committed a crime.
I wait for treatment, tests or procedures; I read the posters on the walls;
That warn me of treating you with violence: it won’t be tolerated at all.
I wonder if I too have those rights, that years pass by and I still remain;
Seated here, waiting for answers, waiting for someone to give me a name.
I sit in corridors, scared or downcast; what will those locked behind doors say?
Will they help me or write me off, will they listen or send me away?
I do not have a PhD, a masters, or education to your degree,
I am no scientist or medic or nurse, I’ve no medical background and what’s worse,
I dare to ask questions and complain and moan, that I am unwell and I want to go home.
A hospital or cattle market? A clinic or court? I must accept that you’ve been taught.
You know better than me, I am a case to close; Be quiet, don’t argue that I am tired or cold;
That I have been here for hours, and yet I still wait, for those behind doors to tell me my state.
You can forget when you go home, yet I still cannot;
I don’t forget when I leave, conditions don’t clock off.
I just continue to sit here a wait, and hope that the door will open;
to someone with compassion, sense and with a way to fix what is broken.
If you do not believe I am human as you, please look into my eyes;
See the worry, the hurt, frustration and grief that bubbles deep inside.
I lie on beds and wait for operations; filled with panic, and fear while you gossip at stations;
TVs blasting, radios too; I long for quiet and care from you.
You fire off key words given to you in books, I must accept them or get one of your looks:
What do I know? I’m a number, a case, nothing more; how dare I argue with your own set of laws.
So I sit here in corridors for hours alone, waiting for some help or to be allowed home,
To be well again, to be happy and cured; is it too much to ask for: just to be heard?
Look into my eyes before I go in to see those behind doors;
take a long look and see what was not on your course,
A person, a human, with feelings and dreams too,
and realise that one day, I may be you.