The voice
That place behind the wheelchair,
the cloaking device,
makes you invisible, a non-being.
“He looks good!” people say.
“Do I look good?” you ask them with your eyes.
“Nothing lasts forever!” people say.
“Oh, but it does.” This you know. Silently. No use trying to tell them.
“God never sends us more than we can handle,” people say.
“God, shmod. We often have more than we can handle. Why else suicides? Addictions? Ulcers? God doesn’t send these things — you just want an easy out!” you say, but only to yourself.
When that wheelchair has worn ruts into the hospital terrazzo floors,
as you search in vain for a quiet corner
just to escape the sounds,
and your soul withers from the aloneness,
it is fitting, that encircling of memory,
sometimes in stone,
sometimes only in the everlasting churn of the wheels.
With thanks to photographer Dan Antion,
submitted to his
Thursday Doors Writing Challenge.
Oddments 
May 31, 2024 at 12:05 pm
A poignant yet honest look at a situation only the caregivers and cared-for understand.
May 31, 2024 at 12:08 pm
Thanks, Dan. It is indeed honest.
May 31, 2024 at 12:30 pm
Oh gosh, Maureen. This is lovely.
May 31, 2024 at 12:39 pm
Thanks, Lois.
May 31, 2024 at 1:12 pm
Maureen this is so powerful it brought tears to my eyes. I was a caregiver for my dad, then my mom (who needed a wheelchair) and now it’s beginning with my husband. Caregiving takes on a life of its own. And we never know if we are going to be a caregiver or the cared for. We just meet it head on as it comes.
Beautiful honest writing. Thank you for your insight.
Ginger🦋
May 31, 2024 at 1:54 pm
Oh, Ginger, I’m so sorry for you! You must be totally worn out, and yet you can’t let on. Caregiving is indeed a life of its own, and in a way no life at all. I’ll be worried about you.
May 31, 2024 at 2:09 pm
Maureen, you are so sweet. Please don’t worry about me. I’m okay. I have plenty of snark left in me and I use it freely! And I still have a sense of humor. It’s amazing how those two traits alone can carry you through.
More importantly, I have wonderful friends like you who keep me laughing, thinking and looking forward to the next post. Can’t even put a price on that!
Ginger🦋
May 31, 2024 at 2:21 pm
Ah, yes. Snark can carry us through many a dark hour, and I’m happy to hear you have a ready reservoir of it. I can’t promise I won’t worry, though, at least a little!
May 31, 2024 at 8:29 pm
Oh Maureen so powerful and heartfelt. The depth of…
“that encircling of memory,
sometimes in stone,”
Really spoke to my soul. Thank you!
May 31, 2024 at 8:52 pm
Thank you, Suzette. I’m glad you felt it.
May 31, 2024 at 8:51 pm
I repeat myself, but you have an amazing way with words that humbles the rest of us. Thank you for sharing your writing skills and your thoughts with us on this topic that so many of us are dealing with today. Being a caregiver is not something you truly understand until you are passed the baton. It takes its toll mentally and physically, but most just keep putting one foot in front of the other and doing the best we can.
May 31, 2024 at 8:56 pm
Thank you, Judy. I loved that “passing the baton.” Yes, it’s like that scene in “1776” where John Adams tries to pass the quill pen and the others shove it back at him. But with caregiving there is often no one to shove it back to. The subject of caregiving will always be close to me. And you are exactly right: it isn’t something you truly understand until you hold that baton that no one wants.
May 31, 2024 at 11:55 pm
Very moving Maureen. Too many are invisible, forgotten, in just this way. (K)
June 1, 2024 at 12:16 am
Thank you, Kerfe. Yes, I think that’s often so with caregivers.
June 1, 2024 at 12:15 pm
Of all kinds (including mothers and childcare workers…)
June 1, 2024 at 12:21 pm
Good point.
June 1, 2024 at 5:28 pm
Hi Maureen, I really like this thoughtful and compelling poem. I think its my favourite of yours to date.
June 1, 2024 at 5:49 pm
Thank you, Robbie. I’m very glad it had meaning for you.
June 3, 2024 at 2:02 pm
What ticked me off when I was caregiver to my mother was how often health care workers would talk to ME when I took her in to doctors’ appointments, as if she weren’t in the room. Not all of them, or even most of them, but some. “Does she sleep well?” “Ask her.” Usually, Mom would chuckle, as if she had almost pulled off a trick on them, letting them think she couldn’t speak for herself. She was a character, right until the end.
June 3, 2024 at 2:19 pm
I love your “ask her.” My favorite was when they’d say “your father,” and then call me MRS. O’Hern. MRS. O’Hern was my mother! One time I snapped and said, “I’m taking care of him! I didn’t marry him!” If you know he’s my father, Mr. O’Hern, how does that make me MRS. O’Hern? Caregivers get cranky — as well they should.
June 3, 2024 at 2:40 pm
We do get cranky. That’s so weird that they called you Mrs. O’Hern! Thought you were his daughter-in-law, maybe? More likely, just didn’t think it through.