One of the saddest and most difficult things is to witness a parent dissolving and disappearing. This poem cannot even begin to capture the angst…
Month: September 2023
Hi folks,
It is high time I shared a poem from my book ‘InVerse Medicine’.
This one is about acquired disability and showcases how attitudinal and structural barriers can isolate the person and compound their struggle.
This wasn’t always my normal.
It isn’t normal for you either,
but it is my permanent.
It is here to stay…
a freak occurrence,
a chance encounter
with a vicious virus
that threw my normal
off kilter
– a mess of atrophied limbs –
while you cross your fingers,
and shy away
from making contact with me,
even though
I’m not contagious at all –
still, even your eyes
don’t look at me,
and you never call it
by its name.
I wasn’t born this way.
Perhaps if I had been,
I may never have discovered
that my newly acquired normal
is your abnormal,
and I might never have noticed
that your empathy
feels like pity,
and looks like reprieve.
But not for long, this reprieve,
because
it’s only postponement,
before your ability
melts away from aging,
and from over-confidence,
even as you design spaces,
and programs,
and whole countries
where access is able-bodied
and it lustily ignores
the fleeting nature
of your kind of normal.
Read more about my book here
This poem was prompted by stories I’ve heard of paternalism in medicine where the lived experience of patients is often not accounted for during decision making. The decisions are, therefore, invariably lopsided and it’s no surprise that patients drop out or experience no benefit at all.
The tattoo on your forearm…
I see it – I see it change shape as you pen
the referral that will send me
to the place I don’t want to go.
You don’t see. You don’t see what I need.
The frown on your forehead…
I notice it – I notice it appear as I try and explain
that my shortened limb doesn’t need an orthopod;
it’s my anemia that’s brought me to your OPD.
You don’t notice. You don’t notice my lost autonomy.
The irritation in your voice…
I hear it – I hear it and it silences me;
you know better than me about anemia
but I understand better what I need.
Your experience doesn’t want to hear about my experience.
I leave
unseen, unnoticed, unheard.
Disappointed, silenced.
I’m currently engaged in changing the way we – me and others – view disabilities. This poem is an effort to change focus from what is different about others and to bring the spotlight on human attributes which are relatable and non-discriminating.
