Notes pertaining
To my mother’s care.
Two slings,
One black, one grey.
The black
To raise my mother from her bed
With the call of the lark
And convey her
From bedroom to living room
And back.
The living room
Where she sits
Watching ITV 3.
Darling Buds. Heartbeat.
Agatha Christie.
She likes them.
Their twee nostalgia.
My mother
Who would not say
Boo to a goose.
Who bore and breastfed
Two boys.
Who tiptoed through life
Sipping white wine.
Delicate and carefully dressed.
Uncertain and sometimes fearful
Of her friends.
Whose knees
Dislocated in her teens
And had to be pinned.
The scars like ripped tights.
Who could not run
And has not walked
For nine years.
Sits in her chair
With my grandmother
Waiting for The Carers.
My dear, deaf,
Confounded grandmother
Ready to take arms
Over what is
And what is not
Acceptable provision.
Acceptable care.
For my mother
Who has not walked
For nine years.
Who is raised by a hoist
And borne
From room to room
In stoic humiliation.
Her whole body
A wound.
This is how it is.
There is an issue
With the slings.
A stitching issue
Abrading skin.
Black slings 1 of.
Another in 2-3 days.
For getting out of bed.
So will be two black slings.
Grey one
For toileting.
On order from the depot
Expected in 2-3 days.
At best.
Four weeks
At worst.
The OT says.
Problems need to be
Reported sooner.
Problems are not problems
Until reported.
Over bucket.
No commode for now
While waiting for two new grey slings.
Up to four weeks.
My mother
Suspended above the bed
Like an acrobat
Like a magician
Must shit
From height
Into a bucket
Twice a day
For four weeks.
Or if no sling
Let her defecate.
Clean her afterwards.
This is how she lives.
Something misaligned
And this is how she lives.
My mother who would not say
Boo to a goose.
Tiptoed through life.
Bore me and my brother.
Who can no longer frame
The words to complain.
My mother
Hung in her sling.
Neither here
Nor there.
This is how it is.