I am a father now

I am a father now, I tell you, I was there …
feeling and sharing in a secondary way
something of the searing pains my dear wife felt that day.
*
It was interminably long for her
as slowly, push by gasping … crying … straining … push
those intermittent hot pulsating surges
stretched more her pelvic frame and cervix.
This, midst low caring murmurings of her doctor and the nurses
who came and checked and whispered
went … came back again … assisted
then left us for a while, mother- and father to-be.
*
And I, helpless and with deep concern did watch
I squeezed her hand and wiped her brow
and kissed her damp, untidy perspirated hair.
From time to time, staff came and went
in crisp clean antiseptic gowns
and in-between they peered and talked and peered some more
and she, submitted to all this invading hurt
as on her crumpled sheets she wrestled there.
*
At least that’s what I thought, imagined it must be for her
I had not realized she saw beyond the drawn-out anguish of her bed.
She knew her body must become a door to motherhood
paining life’s miracle to the light of day.
*
And as a father I can tell you now, it was most wondrous to
behold the moment when my daughter entranced forth,
her tiny body holding so much hope,
as her first blessed helpless human sounds my heart did touch.
*
I had not thought when first began the process to this did span,
that it would be as I experienced now, and I first kissed this babe
of ours upon her lovely, soft and tender brow.
*
And even now, these many years gone by
my arms do feel again in memories treasured times,
her so small body snuggled warm against my chest.
And ‘membering when I first did look upon her face,
I feel those unashamed tears again spill from my eyes.
*
I am her father still, my wife and Love’s best gift,
and will they ever know what word means to me?
I, am a father now.
*
© Dennis Crompton 1994

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

I saw the doc' today

I saw the doc' today.

Things are okay, but...

Better have it checked,

exercise ECG for you, he said.

I, of course, agreed.

*

I've seen pictures

of a treadmill in a prison.

Dreadful thing to torture humans on.

Grey lives made grayer,

to pay for crimes that

never could be paid for;

they hardly saw the light of day.

*

Thankfully the one awaiting me

is part of modern therapy,

hooked up to such gadgetry

it will record how I do

or don't perform, heart stressed

and under pressure...

*

From the data, all being well,

specialists will then meditate,

then medicate, and hopefully

I'll say: The doc' saw me today.

*

© Dennis Crompton 1996

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Mercy me!

I don’t know what I expected as my daughter and I entered the hospital … the figure of a stout matron in blue starched uniform with starched face to match was in the back of my mind; a reminder of a short stay in a military hospital at Woolwich, England in my 18th year. But this was totally different; this was the angiography unit at Mercy Hospital in Auckland, New Zealand.

The matron who met me at 7 am was nothing like the Woolwich matron; this lady was a youngish motherly type who greeted me with, ‘Mr Crompton?’ in a voice that was warmly reassuring, calming my pulse which had threatened to move into a higher gear at the sight of a stethoscope or hypodermic needle: ‘Yes please!’ … I almost blurted out in reply.

Formalities were attended to and then it was up to my room on the second floor. A short explanation was given as to the over-sized nappy-type male knickers with tie-strings on both sides; they lacked any sense of style or appeal and brought a cheeky smile to my daughter’s face. Someone had to have had a sense of humour to have dreamt those things up.

Still, for the staff who had to cope with all manner of things, they covered in a practical way the range of male appendages which lay in the path of the tests the patient required. Although a gown with an opening down the back covered the lot, it still left me feeling vulnerable whichever way one looked at me.

Instructions were given that certain body hair should be removed; a ticklish job requiring steady nerves and an equally steady hand, a job I tackled myself, in fact. The result resembled a fresh piece of pork; soft, pink and with a baby-like texture.

Wow! I thought. I must have looked like that when I was born, on a smaller scale of course. You’ve no idea the thoughts that kept whizzing round inside my head as I walked around, clean-shaven for the next day or so. What would anyone think if I’d had an accident?

I won’t bore you with all that followed; suffice to say that things went smoothly in the angiography department, transferring from bed to table successfully, without as much as a hint of my ludicrous drawers revealing themselves. In any case, they were whisked away as neatly as you like almost before I realised they’d gone. Just as well, I’d have hated to have pictures of those being leaked to the media.
For the next half hour I watched the procedure on a monitor, with someone on the cardiologist team explaining to me the various steps being taken, which I found very reassuring.

This is a light-hearted view of the way I saw and experienced my ‘check-up’ that day. From the welcome at the door at 7am, to the goodbyes at 5pm, everyone helped me feel that my welfare was their concern and that I was important to them; I couldn’t have been in better hands. The hospital is well-named (Mercy Hospital), and this quote from Shakespeare's Measure for Measure aptly fits the staff there:

No ceremony that to great ones 'longs,
Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword,
The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe,
Become with them one half so good a grace
As mercy does.

They must have done a good job, because I’m still here; bless them.

Dennis Crompton © 1997

Only a look and a voice

This is based on something I witnessed during one of my stays in hospital. 

Outwardly, there was nothing appealing about Reginald Barton, as far as the general public was concerned, being one of those unfortunate men whose build and facial features combined to present him as a belligerent person, when he wasn’t. His clothes didn’t help. No matter how clean or new they might be, they fitted only where they touched, adding to the impression that he didn’t give a stuff what anyone thought of him. Understandable then, that he only had a few friends outside his family circle and place of work.

Reg was another person inwardly. Sensitive and caring towards others, he simply had difficulty in expressing himself so others could see and understand. It’s a pity they hadn’t seen him playing with his children, or their puppy and the kitten he bought them when they were small. While others saw mainly a pugnacious Reginald Barton, he was the opposite. Lately he’d found some encouragement in the saying, ‘I am not a number’.

Surrounded as he was by others who’d achieved, they appeared superior in his eyes. I mean, there was little chance in his present environment that Reg would ever realize his own potential. He enjoyed his work, working harder than anyone else in the engineering work-shop and became a perfectionist. If he’d been made the leading hand or foreman in his section it would have benefited everyone, but he was ignored. In management’s eyes he was, just a number. Eventually it took its toll.

One day recently, Reg was thankful he’d managed to get home; it had been a real effort to stay at work that day. As he’d cleared his work space he’d started shaking and felt quite strange. A short time later as he was leaning over the hand basin at home, he had difficulty focusing his eyes and blinked hard trying to clear them. Then a sudden feeling of being drained of energy made his knees buckle, frightening him and it took some minutes before the feeling of panic subsided and he’d gained some control. Later, as he’d changed out of his work clothes wondering what was happening to him he couldn’t prevent a rush of tears filling his eyes adding to his anxiety.

The thing was he’d told no one. He was like that. His wife Pauline knew something was wrong; it was obvious in many ways. She’d urged him to see the doctor during the last few weeks and while Reg knew she was right, he’d put it off. Now as he sat in his chair resting before the evening meal, he felt and looked dreadful. There was a heaviness pressing down around his neck and shoulders and a feeling of utter weariness came over him.

It took an effort to rise to his feet when dinner was ready, then things became vague and very far away. Pauline told him about it later, when he came to and found himself hooked up to a machine in intensive care. ‘You’ve had a heart attack, Reg love. Not too severe, but…’ Reg hardly heard her. He saw her concern. Gave her a sort of smile to reassure her but it was just too much effort to speak just then.

A short distance away his brain registered that there was another man connected to a machine and it concerned him that there was no movement and that the man was there alone; just him and the few lines drifting across the monitor above his head, and then the words, ‘All the lonely people…’ came to him from a song he’d known but he didn’t know why.

Two days later, things were different. He’d been lucky. Tests had shown no permanent damage to his heart but a senior nurse had said, ‘You’ll need to make some changes Mr Barton. Cut out the smokes, take more exercise, watch your food intake and learn to relax more,’ then she’d leaned closer and smiled as she said, ‘We’ll talk more about that later.’

Eventually he was taken off the machine and moved into a side-room, where three beds stood empty. At some stage, an elderly man had been placed in the one across from him and to one side, and the curtains were drawn screening him from view. The man’s wife came in from time to time, speaking to him softly and when she’d left and the nursing staff or doctors were attending to him, Reg heard a few low moans and guessed from their regular visits that he was in quite some pain.

Time lost significance as Reg slept or rested in the cocoon around him, gradually coming to the surface as he felt more confident to join the human race again. In the evening of the second day after Pauline and others had left, he switched off his bed light and settled down to sleep and half-woke later to the low murmur of voices from the bedside of the elderly man. Then they left and Reg lay looking over at the man and wondered about him. The next time he woke a doctor was whispering something to a nurse as she left.

What happened next was beyond Reg Barton's power to change, not that he wanted to as he thought later. He just felt… guilty in a way, as if he’d been caught eavesdropping, which he wasn’t. He knew that later when the realization that he, plain, ordinary Reg Barton had been there to witness what was said during those brief moments. The doctor sat down beside the man, took hold of his hand and said softly, ‘Hello Henry. Doctor Fraser here. We’ve made you as comfortable as we can, that’s really all that we can do now. You remember? I explained it to you yesterday. Yes. The disease in your bones has made them extremely brittle and that is causing you so much pain. We do understand and will move you only if it’s really necessary. Is there anything I can do for you now? No? The nurses and I are close by if you should need anything. You don’t have to suffer if the pain gets too much, let us know Henry, and we’ll give you something to ease it. It won’t last much longer, you know that don’t you? Alright. Your wife Pauline will join you in a few minutes. I’ll see you later Henry. Goodbye for now.’

Henry died around mid-morning the next day with his wife by his side. Before she left, Reg managed to call her over and somehow was able to say how thoughtfully the doctor and nurses had cared for her husband.
‘Henry was not just a number to them, you know.’ After she’d gone, he thought over a few lines of a poem by Longfellow, which had been in his mind since earlier in the day…

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing;
only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;
So on the ocean of life we pass and speak to one another,
only a look and a voice;
then darkness again and silence.

Dennis Crompton © 1999
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

Things have changed since my operation...

Things have changed since my heart bypass operation. I'm just not the same now. A little older, a little greyer and more wrinkled with some wrinkles in places I'd never have expected them. But on the surface I look the same. That's why it's so damned difficult, you see. What does one do to explain? We've all met those who go on about their operations and it can get a bit much until we learn to switch off after the first, 'Oh, it was agony, Ivy!' I sure don't want to fall into that category.

The operation I had has become quite common now, evoking little more than the flutter of an eyebrow here and there. I mean to say, after waiting all one’s life almost for a chance to go to hospital so that flowers can be sent, friends can visit, hospital meals tasted and nurses appraised, it falls flat because it's the third operation of this kind in our town this month. Tough life, eh?

So I've had it. People I know stop me and ask, 'How are you?' and before I can say anything they rush in with, 'You're looking well'. They were saying that before the operation. I just nod my head. A waste of time trying to explain how I really felt. They didn't want to know anyway. It was just a greeting because they felt they had to say something. A bit like the minister shaking hands after the church service. It's like shaking hands with a piece of cold fish. He's miles away, talking to the second person behind you. Hardly gives you a glance.

The surgeon did a good job. I'm not complaining. Really. It's just that he rearranged some of my internal plumbing in the process. Well, the artery was there, doing nothing he reckoned, so might as well make use of it. And, as I say, nobody looking at me now any the wiser. For me though, that knowledge is quite deflating. Hits the old macho male ego for six I can tell you. I mean. What if I should suddenly need my left mammary gland for what it was originally intended. Whatever that was. There! It's out! My left mammary can't mam any more. Is it any wonder I feel such a fraud?

What's made it worse is the get-well card one of my friends sent me. It's of Michelangelo's David, a complete man, obvious which ever way you look at him. The only rearranging required for him would have been to remove anything bordering on the erotic from David's sight prior, during and until the sitting for the painting, sculptor or whatever had been completed. Depending on whether he wore a fig leaf, a cluster of grapes, or his sister's sexy shortie nightie.

I wonder if he'd have been so appealing if he'd had his left mammary rearranged? That of course, is something we'll never know. Just as well we can't change the past, isn't it?

Dennis Crompton© 1997
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)