I lie in bed, unwell, unable
to move my body or head.
Paralysed, dependent,
like a newborn, or the very old.
My husband hovers. I feel
sorry for him; a wife that’s
become a sack of wheat.
I try to see out into the garden,
longing to see green, perhaps,
even pink. But my head has fallen
in a position where I only see
the ceiling: a stain of mould, and
two spiders, daddy longlegs.
I stare at the spiders.
They inch towards each other.
The room takes a spin.
I close my eyes. I close myself,
and try not to feel sad.
Try to remind myself that life is but
a beautiful dream.
I know I’m to find the light
in the gloom, but I’m hurting.
This hurts. I’m spinning, begging
for solid. Wanting it to stop,
for my world to return to the
straight and narrow,
where everything not askew.
Maybe this is the missing link,
the part of my brain that
has the blimp. Despite all,
I still see life as a beautiful.
Dream. Dream. Not a beautiful
burden in which to be set free.
June 9, 2019
About This Poem
Writing about my struggle with my vestibular and neurological condition is cathartic. It takes me out of my small, dark room, and ushers me into a space of healing and light.
