The Human Heart

I had a heart attack on September 24th 2015, and spent a week in St Mary's Hospital on the Isle of Wight before being transferred for an angioplasty to Portsmouth. It may seem odd that this poem is included on my Poems of Faith blog, as it doesn't explicitly mention faith, but look at the last stanza. I am very serious in suggesting that our wonderful NHS staff embody the love of God: 'I am the Good Nurse' seems to me a suitable metaphor for Christ, just as 'I am the Good Shepherd' was 2000 years ago.



It creeps up on you, encroaching stealthily. 

Picture a leaf, which from a certain view

looks pristine, spiky, a healthy, waxy green;

but turn it and the damage can be seen:

the caterpillar's bite marks, yellowing hue

of half-moon fringes nibbled secretly. 

Just so your heart beats on, and you go on,

walking, and cycling, laughing heartily.

You trust the pump that pushes life-blood round, 

brings oxygen to muscles tirelessly,

and antibodies to embattled cells, 

but cannot counteract its own downfall.

Like clotted cream on scones the fatty lumps

are blithely spread to clog the artery wall –

the watchmaker's precision movement stutters;

the marching band's no longer quite in step.

Breathlessly unaware you puzzle over

the tightening chest, the dizziness, the sweat. 

And when these tiresome guests refuse to leave,

a nagging frown begins to form, a fear

that this could be a thing, a real thing,

a thing too threatening for you to ignore. 

And just like that you have become a case.

You watch as others settle on your fate –

a diagnostic puzzle to be solved. 

Triage, blood tests, ECG; you wait

for a bed; the harassed medics rush around

until you settle in the ward, and time

shifts. Seconds tick, tick. Minutes pass. You lie

and listen to the air-conditioning hum,

the beeps and blares, and try to guess what's wrong;

medics come to interrogate your pain,

and green electric ants depict your life 

in trails of spikes and waves across a screen. 

The body shelters from the sniper's shot

subdued; the mind, set free, can roam abroad

without the body's pestering, and learn

the gently efficient rhythms of the ward. 

Morning's bustle: patients roused from sleep

for scheduled obs and cheery cups of tea;

the drug round with the pills in plastic cups;

the Tupperware-laden squeaking breakfast trolley;

bin-liners changed, floors mopped and tables wiped;

more obs, more tea, beds made and fresh bloods taken.

The ward, now cleansed from earthly sin, awaits

the robed consultant's gracious benediction,

with trailing acolytes nodding respectfully;

and when they've made their grave, important rounds,

'Anything from the trolley?' comes the cry,

and newspapers and sweets and coins change hands. 

Lunch, functional, falls short of what you hoped

when filling in the card some hours ago.  

Time shifts again. The morning's brisk allegro 

gives way to afternoon's adagio, 

punctuated by tea or nurses' calls.

You doze, or chat to family and friends;

then supper and the second drug round come: 

more visitors, and then the day shift ends. 

The ward's a different place at night. The squads

of students and their seniors dressed in blue,

of volunteers, technicians, orderlies, 

have gone. Two older souls watch over you;

two nurses with the wisdom of the years, 

exuding calm the eager students lack;

patrolling, coping, settling fretful minds,

safeguarding all their charges through the dark. 

Your roaming mind considers: could there be

a nobler calling than to be a nurse?

'I am the Good Nurse. I lay down my life 

for my patients; tend, through better or through worse,

their needs. Deal with commodes and urine flasks;

take blood, bring tea, and wash and shave

and care. I am Humanity defined;

forbearing, self-forgetting; I am Love.'

Jasmine, Gemma, Liza, as I depart,

my heartfelt thanks: the thanks of my whole heart.