Here, at the end
Is the title of a poetry book by
Alice Teeter.
I have two favorite poems…number 27 and number 39. They are haunting with their emptiness, stillness, and silence. She certainly moves me to think of the last day in a new way.
I recommend Here, at the end by the poet Alice Teeter.
Creator’s humor
The baboon’s bright red bottom
On daily display
April, the month for
Poetry in all its forms
Haiku, my favorite
A nod to nature
Maybe a twist at the end
Three lines…a haiku
Falling asleep, my
Face nose to nose with my face
Jerked away to breathe
The night of the day I wrote Moving On, I had an interesting three a.m. visit in the role of a CNA. She began talking as if she knew I was at the point of dark night of the soul and I was too exhausted to want to continue.
She started talking by saying, “Don’t give up… don’t ever give up.” Usually not the conversation from a CNA at three a.m. She explained that she had a stroke like mine, but in her thirties and she knew that it was much harder to have one in your seventies, as I had. She was using both her arms and was walking…with a stumble is a good way to describe her gait.
She also explained that her grandmother had a stroke in her sixties, a decade still makes a lot of difference, I thought to myself. Her grandmother was a nurse and refused OT and PT. She chose to do her own OT and PT on herself. She made a full recovery. My mind reminded me that I had badly broken my effected arm a couple of years before my stroke which complicates my recovery.
Then the CNA began to talk about God…wanted to know if I believed. Telling me again to never give up. After she left my room, I could feel a little hope returning to my soul in its dark night.
I do believe that sometimes a person like this woman walks into your life for a few minutes, never to be seen again. I think of them as angels.
Would it shock you to know that if I knew how, I would give up my breath and move on to the next plane.
My stroked life and life in this nursing home are almost unbearable and certainly not worth sustaining…that I can see.
I left better days behind with no better possibilities in front of me.
If I knew how to peacefully, I would stop it now. No more pain and anxiety, please. Just peaceful moving on.
In my dream, I rose from my bed, put on my red robe and red slippers. Then I joined friends in my kitchen who were pouring milk over cereal. They were glad I had whole milk. I was happy in my dream.
When I woke, sadness filled me…aware I needed a Hoya lift and two people to rise from bed. I was ninety-nine percent sure I would never go home again and would never again wear my red robe and slippers.
It was winter in the early 1960s. I was spending the night with my friends, Barbara and Alva, who were sisters. The next morning we woke to a heavy snow fall seldom seen in Georgia. No traffic on the road.
I stayed over the next night and early that morning we heard a putt, putt, putt coming down the road. It was my dad coming to get me on his little John Deere tractor. Snow was still falling. He was the only thing on the road since the snow started. We got me settled standing behind him on the tractor and headed for home in the silence of snow. I hugged his shoulders as snow flew in our faces. It was a joy ride for me. The only sounds…us talking, the putt, putt of the tractor and the sound of the tractor tires crunching the snow covered dirt roads.
It continued to snow all the way home. Sometimes snow would fall on us when we drove under trees limbs. We were definitely wet. That is the best time I remember having with my dad. We laughed in this wonderland of snow and us.
Safely back at home, we put on dry clothes, warmed by the stove, and later made snow ice cream. It is a fine memory!
Daily and nightly, there is a scream lodged in my throat. It makes my throat sore and my chest feel hollow. To release it would physically hurt me.
This scream causes anxiety and is crazy-making. It is a silent scream, for now. Releasing it could possibly kill me.
Later, Miss Slater 