A way of responding

Third floor: Palliative Care

The first night in his new room he slipped

getting out of bed just to see

and fell

onto his naked backside.

He was still on blood thinners

and water pills, pain pills, and

something for sleep.

There was a bruise

the size of an outstretched hand

over the right hip bone that jutted

through his cellophane skin,

like a slap but it wasn’t

a slap.

He wasn’t

completely naked but

the blue gown gaped

at the back, even with the crumpled ties

that I fastened

and re-fastened

into tidy bows.

We want to take him home I said, first

to the nurse then to the doctor and to the other

doctor.

Your father is dying, she shrilled

from down the length of the pale green hall

then she sent a social worker

to tell me, but this time

sitting down as if this were something new

I needed to be told

in a quiet room and a sturdy chair.

I took my distance glasses

out of the case, sat them on the bridge

of my nose while she spoke.

It would be a few more days

before I went back

to clean his fridge. Maybe it was news to me.

Then why is he still on a blood thinner?

I asked the social worker

who was looking at the window or her watch.

And can he have his underpants?