Poem about Pain: IC awareness day 15

Write a poem about your pain: the strain it puts on your relationships, the mental impact: no holding back!


Stuck

My knuckles are white as we sit in the traffic jam.
My children are in the back of the car, innocent lambs.
'Give it to me!' shouts one; 'no I won't, I had it first!' the other replies.
'Shut up!' I yell. 'Just shut up right now and let me drive'.

I am so loud and so sharp they both start to cry.
The car is silent now and my eyes are dry.
I stare ahead into the stream of stationery cars and wonder if I have time
To jump out, run behind a bush, or into a pub or a cafe,
To relieve this burning, this screaming inside of me.

Just then, the traffic moves. A few metres.
There is nothing I can do. If we are lucky, it will be fifteen minutes.
If not, it could be half an hour until we are home and I can reach the bathroom.

It feels as if someone has lit a fire just above my pelvis
And it is burning me slowly, painfully, cruelly
From the inside out.
I pop a couple of painkillers from the packet on the dashboard.
I swallow them quickly with some water and fix my eyes on the road.

'Mummy!' asks my little boy, wary now. 'Why did you shout?'
'We weren't exactly naughty', says my daughter, indignant. 'We didn't even mean it'.

I grip the wheel. The traffic is still again.
Do I tell the truth, water it down, or do I just lie?

'I am not feeling great,' I begin.
I can feel their disappointment, their resignation, their reluctant pity.
'I'm really in some pain. It wasn't your fault; I'm sorry I shouted so loud.'
'It's ok, Mummy,' they both quickly say together.
I make promises of cuddes and bedtime stories and maybe dinner watching TV.

But when I look in my rear view mirror, I see what this disease does to my children.
My daughter has her hand on my son's knee, silently comforting him.
He is sucking his thumb, which at 6 I constantly tell him not to do, but this time I say nothing.
She, meanwhile, is looking out of her window, her expression a rainbow of raw emotion.
They are not talking or arguing or giggling anymore.

'You know I'll be ok don't you?' I say, not wanting to have this conversation now.
'I'm starting this new medicine soon, which might really help.'

'You mean the one that makes your hair fall out?' she replies, without expression.
My six year old's eyes widen and he sucks harder.
You can hear the rythmic sound; suck, suck, suck.

We start to drive a bit faster.
The pain shifts to an urgency which is making me almost groan with desperation.
I have no choice; I look for somewhere to stop.
'Where did you even hear that?' I ask her briskly.
'I overheard you on the phone.'
'It doesn't happen very often,' I say, 'and if it does, it usually grows back',
'I love your hair,' says my son. 'It's the colour of the sun'.
I love my hair too. Now it's me who is crying, silently, squinting to see ahead.

We turn off the main road, at last. There is a hedge.
There are a lot of cars passing but we're long past the stage where any of us care.
I indicate and pull the car up on the verge.
I get out of my door, walk around to the passenger side.
I open both doors and squat down by the passenger seat,
I should be out of sight of the road and my children,
But if I'm not it really does not matter.

And now the worst: the hesitant bladder, at last free to relieve herself, will not shift.
I squat like this for one, two minutes. Feels like ten.
'Mummy, how long is this going to take?' asks one of them at last
I can't even hear who it is.
'We want to go home'.

'Look after your brother', I ask my daughter.
She must be able to hear the desperation in my voice.
'We'll read your special book together in bed later. But tell him a story now.'

She sighs, and thank God she obliges.
'Once upon a time, there was a dragon.
He lived upon a lonely mountain, breathing rivers of fire
And he was very, very hungry.
This was because he was not a mean dragon, so he never ate anyone.
In fact, he wanted to make a friend...'
And off they go into their imaginary world.
They go there a lot, these days.

At last my bladder opens and there is a rush of relief.
Everything spills out and again I feel ok.
I shut the doors and get back into the car.
For ten minutes now, I will feel 'normal', like anybody else.
By the time I get home, I will need to rush to the bathroom again,
Though the pain will be less intense because of the medication.

I hear the end of the story.
'The dragon and the bird were friends for many years.
Then the bird got poorly, and the dragon made him a nest.
He stayed with the dragon and did not fly south.
The dragon loved him and loved him and cooked him little treats
With the fire that he breathed.
And at last the bird got better.
Before he flew away he thanked the dragon.
It was your love that made me better.'

Before I start the car, I turn around to my children.
' I love you both so much, and I'm so proud of you,' I say.
They smile. They've got through this today; the crisis is over.
Mum is smiling again, and we will keep on keeping on.
But we all wish it was different.
That I could spread my wings again and fly.
That I begin to heal
That we have our happy ending.