Every day, as our politicians tell us that pensions and welfare are unaffordable, we must pay more for health and education, the unemployed are lazy, we cannot spend money on foreign aid, we must not help asylum seekers, we do not need disability advocates, we can’t afford to protect the environment . . . the heart of Australia beats slower and slower.
The Abbott government wants to take our ailing heart, promising to replace it with a diamond. That diamond is turning out to be not even a cubic zirconia but instead, a lump of coal.
Today I was reminded how paltry Tony Abbott is by forgetting about politics and spending a day with my family.
My mother is 93 years old. After being diagnosed with Alzheimers in 2003, she moved in with my family for six years before moving to an aged care facility in 2009.
She has managed well considering and, up until a few months ago, I would regularly pick her up to join whatever family members were available for lunch at the pub. We would eat oysters looking out at the water through the Norfolk Pines. Every time mum would say “Isn’t it nice how they’ve left the trees” and my daughter and I would smile at each other. It gave her such pleasure.
A couple of months ago mum fell and broke her hip. Despite enduring an operation, she will not walk again. She has been moved to a dementia ward at the nursing home.
Today my son came with me to visit her and he wheeled her outside where we sat in the garden enjoying the sun and the chocolates and bananas (her favourite) we’d brought.
My son is 23 and had been hesitant to see his grandmother in hospital – scared of the deterioration. Within seconds the hesitation was gone as he chatted away with the various other residents.
We stayed for hours and then all the way home he talked about how cool it was, that I’d exaggerated how bad it would be, how funny was that guy, how happy was that lady, how he admired them.
When we got home he was recounting all the stories to his sister and then he sent me the following email (from Facebook).
“When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home, it was believed that he had nothing left of any value.
Later, when the nurses were going through his meagre possessions, they found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital.
The old man’s sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas editions of magazines around the country and appearing in mags for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem.
And this old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this ‘anonymous’ poem winging across the Internet.
Cranky Old Man . . .
What do you see nurses? . . . What do you see?
What are you thinking . . . when you’re looking at me?
A cranky old man, . . . not very wise,
Uncertain of habit . . . with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his 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 sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not . . . let’s 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 boy of Sixteen . . . with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now . . . a lover he’ll meet.
A groom 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 man 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 woman is 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 wife is now 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 man . . . and nature is cruel.
It’s 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 man 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 cranky old man.
Look closer . . . see . . . ME!!
Remember this poem when you next meet an older person who you might brush aside without looking at the young soul within . . .
we will all, one day, be there, too!
The best and most beautiful things of this world can’t be seen or touched.
They must be felt by the heart.”
As I read this, I cried. I cried for my mother, I cried for my son, and I cried for my country whose heart has been ripped out.
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