Holding myself together

Lana Lovo

doi:10.46747/cfp.6909635

I composed the following poem on a day when my clinic was going to hell in a handbasket, and it was only 7:53 am. The opening line just popped into my head, along with the background thrum of “just one more thing, just one more thing, just one more thing.” It is germane to the crisis in family medicine and in primary care in general.

Makeshift

I’m holding myself together with spit and string.
Doc, just one more thing:
            They need another form.
            Is this lump …?
            I’m having chest pain.

I’m holding myself together with coffee and glue.
(I’m worried for you)
            The scan is back. Is this a good time to talk?
            How is your pain?
            Why haven’t you answered your phone?

I’m holding myself together with will and tape.
You’re always running late.
            Just one more thing. I promise it’s quick.
It’s too hard to get in with you.
            Will you take my mother my brother my aunt my neighbour my …?
I have a list.
            Just one more thing.

I’m stitching myself together with gratitude.
            My husband is kind.
            My kids don’t have cancer.
            My cheques don’t bounce.
            My dad didn’t suffer.