Exam Rooms Are Often Windowless

When we first arrived hours ago, it was sunny,
now pouring. We hear the drum roll
of rain on the metal roof, the damp complaints
of thunder. We sat in the big waiting room
well past my appointed time, then finally felt
a lift of hope when we were herded
back into this airless box of a room,
only to continue the long wait
for my pathology report.
We hash through every possible outcome–
my husband’s bright outlook clashes
with my slate gray view. We run
out of scenarios, slump immobile,
in heavy silence so long
the lights go out. Blackness thick as felt
envelops us. We fumble in the dark
to reach each other. As soon as we move,
the lights snap on. Perhaps the lights
sense the bad news from the biopsy.
The lights know before we do,
the stark difference
between the quick
and the dead.

Grandma’s Letters – Just Another Mortal

By the way, Uncle Timmy was taken by ambulance home from the hospital yesterday; really no
better but anything is better than being hospitalized in as much as he has a hospital bed and
oxygen all the time at home. Too bad he can’t die as he will never by better and I’m sure Helen
is entitled to something better for what is left of her life, but who am I to say? I am just another
mortal.

Uncle Timmy used to let us kids
feed weeds to his grey and tan ponies
while he smoked unfiltered cigarettes
in the corral. We hung over
the fence with our treats.
Their velvet noses were so tempting
to touch, but he warned us off.
Their teeth can grind
sweet grass as well as your
fingers.
Aunt Helen’s hair was orange-red
even though she was in her seventies.
She drank beer and wore lipstick
that matched her hair.
Her laugh was high-pitched and frequent.
When he got sick, her colors dimmed.
As it happens, she got sucked into
the revolving door in which the dying spin
and pull others in; never hinted
that she wished he would die
or wished to be free.

Amy Haddad is a poet, nurse, and ethicist who taught at Creighton University. Her poetry and short forms have been published in the American Journal of Nursing, Janus Head, Journal of Medical Humanities, Touch, Bellevue Literary Review, Aji, Oberon Literary Journal, Abandoned Mine and the anthologies Between the Heart Beats and Intensive Care: More Poetry and Prose by Nurses both edited by Cortney Davis and Judy Schaefer, University of Iowa Press, Iowa City, Iowa. She is the co-editor of The Arduous Touch: Women’s Voices in Health Care, Purdue University Press. Her chapbook, The Geography of Kitchens, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2021 and her first poetry collection, An Otherwise Healthy Woman, was published by Backwaters Press, an imprint of the University of Nebraska Press in 2022.