Most of the time, forwarded emails can be a pain in the backside.
Some of the time, they make me laugh. Some of the time, I forward them on (not to my whole email address list, but to people who I think will like that particular email).
Occasionally, forwarded emails make you cry.
I had a lump in my throat the size of Africa when I tried to tell my Mum earlier this week that this one (below) reminded me of my Dad during his last week in hospital (his last week, as in he died soon after).
My sisters and I were taking in turns to sit through the night with Dad so he wouldn’t be alone. I have always regretted not giving a piece of my mind to the male nurse who treated Dad like a misbehaving child when he wanted the bed pan just a wee while after the guy had asked Dad if he wanted it (or something similar like that). The circumstances didn’t matter, my Dad deserved that attention, Any patient deserves that attention. (And I say this all the while knowing that I could never ever have the patience and caring nature of a nurse).
I have more to say about visiting Dad’s resting place while in the South Island this week, but for now, here’s this email. Thank you sister#1 for sending it on.
CRANKY OLD MAN
One nurse took her copy to Melbourne. The old man’s sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas editions of magazines around the country and appearing in mags for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem.
And this old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this ‘anonymous’ poem winging across the Internet.
Cranky Old Man
What do you see nurses? . .. . . .What do you see?
What are you thinking .. . . . . when you’re looking at me?
A cranky old man, . . . . . .not very wise,
Uncertain of habit .. . . . . . . . with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food … .. . . . . and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice . . . . .. ‘I do wish you’d try!’
Who seems not to notice . . . . .the things that you do.
And forever is losing . . . . . . . . . . A sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not .. . . . . . . . . . . lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding . . . . . .The long day to fill?
Is that what you’re thinking? . . . . . . Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse . . . . . . you’re not looking at me.
I’ll tell you who I am . . . . . . . As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, . . . . . . as I eat at your will.
I’m a small child of Ten . . . . . . . with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters .. . . . . . . . who love one another
A young boy of Sixteen . . . . . with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now . . . . .. … . a lover he’ll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty . . . . … . . my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows .. . . . . . that I promised to keep.
At Twenty-Five, now . . . . . … . . . . I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide . . . . And a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty . . . . . . . . .. My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other . . . . . . . With ties that should last.
At Forty, my young sons .. . .. . . have grown and are gone,
But my woman is beside me . . . . . . . to see I don’t mourn.
At Fifty, once more, . . … . . . …Babies play ’round my knee,
Again, we know children . . . . . . . My loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me . . . . . .. My wife is now dead.
I look at the future … . . . . . . . . . . . . .. I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing . . . . . . young of their own.
And I think of the years . . .. . . . . And the love that I’ve known.
It’s jest to make old age . . . . . . . look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles .. . . . … . . . . . grace and vigor, depart.
There is now a stone .. . . . . .. . where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass . . . .. A young man still dwells,
And now and again . . .. . . . my battered heart swells
I remember the joys . .. . . . . . . . .. . I remember the pain.
And I’m loving and living . . . . .. . . . . . . . . life over again.
I think of the years . all too few . . . . . . gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact . . . . . . . . that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people . . . . . . . . open and see.
Not a cranky old man . Look closer . . . . see . . . . … . ME!!
Remember this poem when you next meet an older person who you might brush aside without looking at the young soul within . … . . . we will all, one day, be there, too!
Very little of the time, do we
Sometimes we are surprised by those emails we get sent.
rivettingKateTaylor 