Tonight her last night in
Their bed

New bed not wanted
To meet the needs
Of chronic illness
A specially made bed
To ease her symptoms
Improve her sleep
And yet

She wanted to hold on to
Their bed

Tomorrow her new whizz bang bed
It will raise her back
Elevate her feet
Dip in the centre
Take pressure off her spine
Even vibrate gently
And yet

It will no longer be
Their bed

One final night
Spreading out
Curling up
Letting go
Preparing herself

For her first night in
Her bed

Tricia 6/2013

About triciabertram

I have written all my life. Writing helps me to make sense of a world I often don’t understand. Poetry is my supreme solace, closely followed by literature and music. When my son ended his life in 1999 I embarked on the most difficult journey of my life, my grief journey. To survive in this unknown, harsh landscape I had to write. It was for me, the only way I could even begin to move forward. Then in 2009 my darling husband died suddenly and so my journey continues. I write about other issues but because of my life experience, grief and death are continuing themes in my writing life. In our culture I believe there is a fear of death, an inability to accept the inevitability of our mortality, and this creates enormous difficulties for the bereaved and those around them. I have begun this blog in the hope I will create a small ripple in the pond of fear that is currently drowning the reality of death and grief. I will continue to skim the stones of my truth, watch them bounce, and see how many ripples I can make.

Posted on June 21, 2013, in Poems and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 19 Comments.

  1. I’m sorry to hear that. Take care

    • Dear Joe,

      it’s been a journey, but one with a happy ending. It’s all part of coming to terms with my life as it is now. I’ve learnt the best way to do this is to walk through the fires of grief. I truly experience a sense of coming out the other side.
      Thanks as always my Irish mate.

  2. Life is full of so many different and difficult changes isn’t it Tricia, and this is one of them! I can relate so much to this and more to what is being said/felt between the lines of words.

    I always get a little flutter of warmth when I see a new post from you. They are always so meaningful for me. This is no exception as I, too, keep going through such “unwanted” changes. Change is difficult whatever it is, but some are much bigger for us than others. I can see the enormity of this.

    Love and hugs my lovely friend xxx

    • Dear Christine,
      As you could see from the latest poem, the new bed is wonderful. But I’m a strange woman sometimes, well often. The old bed was stood against the piano in the lounge room for a week, I wasn’t ready for it to be taken away. I’d go in each day and like, Linus, with his blanket, I’d lean against it and touch it. I told myself it had to go before the builders came to do the bathroom. It was picked up the day before the builders were due to start.:)
      My dear friend, I too find great comfort and connection in your poetry. Your words flow into me and I’m the richer for the reading of them.
      Much love
      Tricia xoxo

  3. I wept openly.

    • Dear Sony,
      It was difficult, but so worth while. Just the writing about it helped me enormously. And the new bed is a hum dinger. My sister tried it out at the weekend, and I just about needed a crowbar to prise her out of it.
      Big hugs to you and Kelly
      Tricia xoxo

  4. Such a big step, Tricia. I hope the new bed provides some physical relief and eases your body into greater rest and perhaps really does bring some relief to chronic pain. Once again, the steps of grief take on an entirely new challenge. ox

    • Hello Debra,
      Yes it was a huge step, but one that has been so worthwhile. I’m sleeping the best I have since Rod died. I’ve more energy, in fact my nephew who cleans my home had to ask me to stop following him around doing things because I was putting him off his routine.:)

      I had to leave it behind yesterday as I’ve had to move out while my bathroom is done, but in its place I have a magnificent view of the sea. (There’ll hopefully be a picture or two during the week.)

      I’m moving forward in acceptance of my life as it is now. Being me, there’s always a kick and scream as part of the journey. The writing is so therapeutic for me.

      Take care

      • You know Tricia, we often talk about accepting “what is” and I probably throw that around more than I should! It’s a lot easier said than done when someone goes through a complete change in family structure and experiences multiple losses. That you are even beginning to really grapple with this is a huge testament to your very powerful spirit. Keep looking at the gorgeous sea! I think it does convey something powerfully soothing. And do keep writing…you have a tremendous gift. I do believe that. ox

      • Debra, thank you. Your words mean a lot.
        And yes, I too find the sea soothing. The night after Rod died I couldn’t sleep, so in the wee small hours I drove down the road to the sea and keened until I dropped exhausted onto the sand. I lay there and let the sound and scent of the sea soothe me.
        The sea is one of the reasons I don’t want to move from my home. I can only drive short distances now, and the sea is less than 10 minutes drive from my home. I don’t go as often as I once did, but it’s the knowing I can go that’s important. xoxo

  5. So evocative, yet again – the past, present and future all collide.

    • Nathan, you sum things up so wonderfully.
      It’s ultimately been a positive experience. Yes there were tears, but that yawning chasm of absence has gone from my bedroom. I spread out more in my king single than I did in the queen size. I wasn’t fully aware of how rigidly I was ‘keeping to my side’.
      Take care my friend

  6. I was very much the same with my shoes Tricia. I had them sort of ready to part with but I wasnt ready. When the pain of constantly looking at them outweighed parting with them I did it. I wrote a poem about parting with my shoes. Its in my poetry book.

    Much love and hugs
    Christine xx

    • Ah Christine, I’ve kept my favourite pair of shoes. They’re bright red patent slip-ons, with a gold scrolly wedge heel. They are so beautiful, but I can’t even wear then in my wheelchair because they hurt so much. The red patent bit that goes across the top of the foot was so hard, it actually cut my foot once.
      The last time I wore them was when Rod was presented with an Engineering Excellence Award. It was one of the proudest nights of our life. Black tie dinner, very posh.
      When the night was over he pulled my wheelchair away from the table, under which I’d kicked the torturous things of beauty. Somehow they ended up way under the table, so Rod ended the night on all fours, scrambling under a table in an effort to retrieve my shoes. He was, let’s say, less than pleased:) Christine, he threatened to throw my shoes in the first bin we came to. Naughty Rod.
      When I return home I’ll get my sister to retrieve them from the back of the cupboard and I’ll take a photo for you.

  7. Ooh yes please, a photo of the shoes would be great!!

    My memory is like a sieve these days. Did I send you a copy of my poetry book? Just wondering if you saw the shoes poem. I cant remember!!

    Your story about the posh do and all fours made me chuckle. 🙂 i can just picture the scene! 🙂

    Love and big hugs and one for Big Ted too xxx

    • Yes, Christine, I have your wonderful book of poetry.
      I read your ‘walker’ poem at my writer’s workshops, and pass your book around during the break. People find your work very moving. The accompanying photo of the walker standing alone is powerful stuff my friend.
      I can’t remember the shoe poem at present, but shall seek it out when I return home.
      Tricia xoxo

  8. What you have just said to me has made the book worthwhile. I said to myself if it reached out to one person that would be enough. So you have made my day and its been off to a difficult start. I havent been out for weeks apart from hospital appointments. Ive gradually realised I have been in.a place where if I don’t go anywhere and just stay at home with minimum walking in the house then I dont feel disabled. Going out means befriending the new mobility scooter and suddenly I will become “different”. I needed to force myself before depression took over and I dont want that, Ive been there twice before and it was 3 months in hospital each time.

    So this morning we have been to a local park called Golden Acre. Took Jack my lovely dog too. And it was okay. Im shattered now just with the emotional energy used up but pleased that I took control and did it. Ive been very angry for a few weeks and it does me no good, but I have to allow myself to go through these dark patches. I am sure you will understand totally, even though our circumstances are different.

    Love you.

    Hugs xxx

    • Your book is a valuable resource for me, my friend. Your words touch many people.

      I do have a sense of what you’re experiencing. I too tend to stay at home because going out is just too hard. I’ve been a bit weepy the last couple of days. Here an I staying in a lovely hotel, overlooking the ocean, but I miss my home. Plus my pain is greater without my special chair. Not being comfortable for a week, with more to come is not easy, no matter how beautiful the surroundings, but we do our best. That’s all we can do.

      The hotel I’m going to tomorrow is one of Melbourne’s grand old dames, in hotel terms. But it doesn’t have even one disabled room. My niece has checked it out and with my shower chair and mats I should be able to manage.

      Hope you get some rest this afternoon (your time) it’s bedtime for me.

      Big, big hugs and well done for making it out.
      Much love

  9. Thanks Tricia. I hope you sleep well. Night night. 🙂 and big hug xx

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