Hanging On

Surgery would give him life,
return his heart to beating strong.
Without it, he grew weaker,
he'd be just, hanging on.

A pig's valve would do just fine,
and a bypass for good measure.
Would get him up and around again,
to enjoy his life of leisure.

Given age and circumstance,
the surgery went well.
He was up and eating,
only time would tell.

A little pseudomonas bacteria,
a pseudonym for hell.
And he was barely breathing,
No, he wasn't doing well.

It called for drastic action,
to save him before too late.
Tubes to breathe and eat.
Tubes to drain and medicate.

His only kidney failed.
His blood pressure dropped.
His lungs filled with fluid,
but his heart never stopped.

He could not hear well,
he could not even talk.
But they kept on working.
To counter every block.

It took dialysis,
to clean his blood.
Antibiotics and suction,
to stem the vile flood.

It took a tracheotomy,
to clear his worn raw throat.
But he could not swallow,
he'd only choke.

By now so depressed,
he nearly gave up hope.
But somehow kept hanging on,
To his life loving rope.

Two months in critical,
With open pressure sores.
Extremities swollen,
strength lost through his pores.

His marrow wasn't producing,
new blood for his veins.
A transfusion was required,
to renew his blood reins.

With a collar he was talking,
sitting up, and slowly walking.
Watching his favorite team play,
ever hopeful of the new day.

That all this technology,
and all that medicine had done,
will bring him back to life,
to more, than just hanging on.

Hospital Bed

Mail

More Poems

My Place

Read War's End, the Novel


Copyright 2005 © Ronald W. Hull

10/22/05