What is it that inspires me to pen my thoughts on paper? In the words of Byron Katie, in her book Loving What Is, "If you don't know what to write about, wait. Life will give you a topic." I couldn't agree more.
I wrote this poem called The Rest Home, after visiting a friend in a nursing home a couple of years ago. Perhaps it sounds familiar.
They call this place a rest home, and I suppose it is,
But I could rest at home, so why am I here?
Is it because I cannot hear, or sometimes spill my food?
I can't help what I can't control. How can this be for my good?
I don't know the people here, yet I am forced to share my life,
With those I've never met. They know nothing of my strife.
I want my own family and friends, those who've known me all these years.
I need them to be here with me. I need them to calm my fears.
I'm not as strong as I used to be. I cannot do the things I could.
I have to depend on others, to take me places that I would.
My hair is gray. My back is bent. My body limits me.
I am no longer a pillar of strength, but I am still here. Can't you see?
I take my pills. I read my book. I stare out into space.
I cannot help but wonder, Will I ever leave this place?
I walk so slow. I count my steps. How much farther can it be?
I'm in no hurry to change my clothes. Someone else dresses me.
My face is drawn. My mouth can't form the words I want to say.
I get frustrated easily. I don't adapt to change.
Those who take care of me always seem to wear a smile.
When I can't get my mind to work, they sit with me awhile.
They know what it's like, the things in life, I can no longer control.
This is their life too. They know what it means to be old.
I'm uncertain of my future as I sit here from day to day.
Sometimes I count the hours. I try to keep death at bay.
My days have always been numbered but I never counted them before.
I wonder when my time will come, as I sit in my wheelchair, staring silently at the floor.
My story is shared by so many others. They're on their last journey too.
We wanted to have a voice, and now we've shared our thoughts with you.
Betty Peacock, Copyright 2008
"Through the dark and stormy night Faith beholds a feeble light, up the blackness streaking; Knowing that God's own time is best, In a patient hope I rest, For the full day-breaking!"
-John Greenleaf Whittier
