Jim Gustafson, MDiv
Fort Myers, Florida, USA
Poet’s statement: “Hospice House” reflects on a time recently spent in the lobby of our local hospice facility, as I visited with a good friend named Wilma.
“Psychosocial” reflects on the most recent events of Wilma’s life as she, who very much hates to fly, flew to visit her daughter. Upon returning, her condition rapidly declined. She was admitted to hospice care. I think it should remind everyone what most hospice workers know: there is much more to our decline than is captured in the body.
| Psychosocial Wilma, on morphine, feels little pain She is miles away from herself Even further from her children Who have grown into their own scars. Their mother is an inconvenient journey A historic marker commemorating indecisive battles The kind that make wars winless.Wilma, nearing ninety recalls, Cranks on phones, fountain pens, Beer in buckets, and when all cars were black. She has lived through many wars, The world’s and her own Alone, she faces an enemy once more This time with heavy arms Limping forward to the fightJust a week, or was it two, ago? She faced her fears and flew To see her daughter, as if by instinct Migrating back. On the plane, She smiled at the flight attendants, Held her breath, prayed all the way Wishing her children had come to her Just once through the years,When the week was over, Flying back home Wilma was almost too tired to pray Slowly letting go a sigh or two Eyes closed as she dozed As one does when hard work is doneThis trip was, she knew, important to do The polite back and forth all visit long The unspoken forgiving For all done wrongWhen she got home, Wilma found Everything just as she left it. Then came A kind of pain she had never known. She’s moved into her final room Where she is free to go About what’s left of her life’s work Finish all she started long ago And move on |
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Hospice house In the lobby Where people come To die well They wheel in, The same way They wheel outThough, coming in Faces are not covered Going out they are Head to toe In a sky-blue Velvet bag with a zipperRolling down the long hall Feet first is protocol Toward the EXIT sign Above the door (the irony of fire codes)There is a whisper Clear but faint In the slight squeak Of a gurney’s left front wheel“I’m glad that’s over. It wasn’t so bad. Tell my Ella I’m sorry, Don’t be sad. There’s food in the fridge. Don’t forget to cancel my phone. Everything looks . . .”The body pusher pushes A chrome square on the wall The glass doors swing open And that is all |
JIM GUSTAFSON, MDiv was born in Chicago and now lives in Fort Myers, Florida. He graduated from Florida Southern College with honors in philosophy and received his master’s of divinity from Garrett Theological Seminary at Northwestern University. Ordained in the United Methodist Church, he has served as a local church pastor, conference leader, pastoral counselor, and hospice director/educator. For 30 years, he worked as a broadcasting executive and a management and sales consultant. He is married, has two children and three granddaughters, and now reads, writes, and pulls weeds.
Highlighted in Frontispiece Winter 2012 – Volume 4, Issue 1
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