My Grandma

Gladys died three weeks ago, in a home near here. She had been here only two weeks. She took a bit of a turn, and seemed to get better, then while having her tea and a piece of cake, quietly died. She would have been 90 this year. For the past three weeks since she passed, a poem I read at school has been on my mind. It was written by an old woman who died on a geriatric ward many years ago. The poem was found by the nurses when they went through her things, and the hospital was so impressed it was published and issued to all the nurses who worked there, and has since become famous. I think of it now, because, even towards the end when the dementia was so advanced that her conversation was little more than a repetitive ramble, she would occasionally say ‘I don’t feel any different you know’,  and I knew exactly to what she was referring.  Tomorrow I go to her funeral.

What do you see, nurses, what do you see?
What are you thinking when you’re looking at me?
A crabby old woman, not very wise,
Uncertain of habit, with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles her food and makes no reply
When you say in a loud voice, “I do wish you’d try!”
Who seems not to notice the things that you do, and
Forever is losing a stocking or shoe…..
Who, resisting or not, lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding, the long day to fill….
Is that what you’re thinking?
Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse; you’re not looking at me.
I’ll tell you who I am as I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, as I eat at your will.
I’m a small child of ten ….with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters, who love one another.
A young girl of sixteen, with wings on her feet,
Dreaming that soon now a lover she’ll meet.
A bride soon at twenty — my heart gives a leap,
Remembering the vows that I promised to keep.
At twenty-five now, I have young of my own,
Who need me to guide and a secure happy home.
A woman of thirty, my young now grown fast,
Bound to each other with ties that should last.
At forty, my young sons have grown and are gone,
But my man’s beside me to see I don’t mourn.
At fifty once more, babies play round my knee,
Again we know children, my loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me, my husband is dead;
I look at the future, I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing young of their own,
And I think of the years and the love that I’ve known.
I’m now an old woman …and nature is cruel;
‘Tis jest to make old age look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles, grace and vigour depart,
There is now a stone where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass a young girl still dwells,
And now and again, my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys, I remember the pain,
And I’m loving and living life over again.
I think of the years ….all too few, gone too fast,
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people, open and see,
Not a crabby old woman; look closer …see ME!!

Remember this poem when you next meet an old person who you might brush aside without looking at the young soul within. We will one day be there, too.