Anatomy Of Grief

An anatomy of grief

A cycle of seven poems on the death of my baby son, Ian in 1996

NO GOD.

There ain't no God, up there, on high,
He let my little baby die.
Don't bother praying, wrists locked tight,
On bended knee, when things aren't right.

It's not that God, perhaps don't care,
It's obvious really; he just isn't there;
Don't pound his door, or ring his bell,
Is he at home? He just won't tell!

The truth is hard, but sad to say,
WE created HIM, not the other way.

There ain't a God, high and aloof.

My child's dead.

I know the truth.
*************

YOU CAN TRUST US!

You can trust us, we're doctor's you know,
We're nurses and midwives, we'll run the show!
You can trust us; we'll get it
right&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;
And when it goes wrong,
We'll swear black is white!
We'll lie, and we'll cheat,
Yes, we'll swear green is blue,
We'll cover each other; you know it's all-true!
At the end of the day, when all's said and done,
That midwife's our colleague, and also our chum!
We'll falsify records, say what went unsaid,
We'll connive and collude, if somebody's dead,
You can count on the fact, that we'll take no blame,
You're nothing special, we treat all the same!

You can trust us, we're doctors, you know&;#8230;

We're the establishment:

We run the show.
**************

AN UGLY BABY

How can you tell your six year old,
That the baby brother she briefly had,
Is now no more?

How?

I tried, in my clumsy, wet eyed way.

I said:

"Heaven's short of angels, and baby Ian was so beautiful, that God
wanted him for himself".

Many tear-dried weeks later, unbidden she whispered in my ear.

"I hope that the next baby mommy has is ugly-
God won't want him then".
*********************

WHEN SHE WAS MAD.

When she was mad, she'd lay in our bed,
And imagined our baby was living, not dead.

She hunted hard, through sweat-crumpled sheets,
For a warm, gumless mouth to suckle her teats.

When she was mad, she'd hear his fain cry,
In the dead of the night, from a cold starless sky.

As she listened hard, lying flat on her back,
She prayed to her God, "Oh, please bring him back".

When she was mad, she'd buy clothes from shops,
Bright coloured booties, warm fleecy tops.

She chose them carefully, checking the size,
Brought for the baby, with unseeing eyes.

When she was mad, then I was mad to,
I couldn't stop her, and never tried to.

I just lay helpless, night after night,
As she raved and she cursed, as her reason took flight.

When she was mad, she'd lay in our bed,
And imagined our baby was living, not dead.
************************************

A DUTY TO PERFORM.
We sat coldly together,
But apart, in the warm Hospital Mortuary.
Her, shrouded in a quiet determination.
I shielded in mine.

A battle of silent, hard wills.
A bloodless fight between mother and son,
Each quietly vying with the other,
Competing to complete the unpleasant duty.

I, to protect her, as a good son should,
She, to protect me, like a broody mother hen.
Each attempting to guard the other from the horror,
We both knew that was in the little side room,
Just across the way.

I won, and yet I lost.
She lost, and yet she won.

The polite summons came,
And in the end, with unspoken agreement,
It was I that rose, not she.

It was I that identified my cold, waxen son,
That lay on that pristine, hard marbled surface.

That which had been pure, was now rotten:
Many putrefying weeks and intrusive examinations,
By sharp, prying fingers had assured my son's present state of
being.

What I saw, on that slab, I should never see.

And what I saw, I will never tell.

Now that my memory and sleep are murdered.
*************************************
LOVE LETTER.

My dearest, darling little boy,

I've placed within, your own first toy; you've been dressed in your
warm wool suit, bright lime green, the colour of fruit. I'm also
placing in this letter; it makes your daddy feel so much better. I know
I'll never see you run, with giggling friends in warm summer sun; or
rub your chapped hands in winters chill, when you've tumbled and rolled
down some snow covered hill.

Your sisters all miss you very much, your little hand they'll never
clutch, we feel so empty, deep within, we'll never see your first
little grin.

To think, I'll never see you play, or run to fight another day.

Never to share what gives me joy, my lovely, gorgeous little boy.

Would you be happy? Would you be sad? I'll never know,

With love,

Your dad.
*****************

EPITAPH.

All I have,
Is a black marble marker, and my
Memories.

I wish I could loose both.