When you are older
and the doctor’s assistant
rushes you along with instructions
as if you were a young child
who is just learning how to follow
directions,
When the truth of it is
you’ve lived for 85 years,
raised five kids, learned how to drive
and got a job after your husband died
when you were only forty four and now
this middle-aged woman asks questions,
barks instruction, voice loud and jarring
with a cheerful impatience that
cuts at your dignity and suddenly
every request seems complicated
and you lose the fluidity and grace that
carried your aging body in to this room.
She has prepared you for the doctor and
leaves you with white paper johnny
as you sit childlike inside, old outside,
and you wonder who you are as
the doctor arrives, looks into the computer
so serious and quiet instead
of your eyes.
He holds the power to slow down
your failing body and mind, keep you alive
and you are so grateful. You know
the natural order of things
and you don’t mind.
It’s just that at 85, you have years
of experience, understand how it feels
to get old and you’re open
to understanding it further with this doctor
who sees you more and more often.
You know the routine and yet
each time you sit on that table,
in that small room of paper and
metal so sterile, follow
the routine, wait for the report-
a tally of your personal numbers
and medicines that define you,
to take home. You walk away
relieved with thoughts of a fresh start
and make your next appointment
smiling, always feeling
so damned powerless, inferior.
and the doctor’s assistant
rushes you along with instructions
as if you were a young child
who is just learning how to follow
directions,
When the truth of it is
you’ve lived for 85 years,
raised five kids, learned how to drive
and got a job after your husband died
when you were only forty four and now
this middle-aged woman asks questions,
barks instruction, voice loud and jarring
with a cheerful impatience that
cuts at your dignity and suddenly
every request seems complicated
and you lose the fluidity and grace that
carried your aging body in to this room.
She has prepared you for the doctor and
leaves you with white paper johnny
as you sit childlike inside, old outside,
and you wonder who you are as
the doctor arrives, looks into the computer
so serious and quiet instead
of your eyes.
He holds the power to slow down
your failing body and mind, keep you alive
and you are so grateful. You know
the natural order of things
and you don’t mind.
It’s just that at 85, you have years
of experience, understand how it feels
to get old and you’re open
to understanding it further with this doctor
who sees you more and more often.
You know the routine and yet
each time you sit on that table,
in that small room of paper and
metal so sterile, follow
the routine, wait for the report-
a tally of your personal numbers
and medicines that define you,
to take home. You walk away
relieved with thoughts of a fresh start
and make your next appointment
smiling, always feeling
so damned powerless, inferior.
