I think my readers at Smith Mountain Lake will be as moved by the following true story and poem as I was.
When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in North Platte, Nebraska, it was believed that he had nothing left of any value. Later, when the nurses were going through his meager 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.
One nurse took her copy to Missouri. The old man’s sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas edition of the News Magazine of the St . Louis Association for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem. And this little old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this ‘anonymous’ poem winging its way across the world via the internet.
You see nurses? . . . . . What do you see?
What are you thinking . . . . . when you’re looking at me? A crabby 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 . . . . . . . . lets 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’s 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 life can be cruel. Tis hard to reach old age . . . . . and look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles . . . . . . . . . . grace and vigor, depart. There is now just longing. . . . to go to God in my heart. But inside this old carcass . … .A young guy 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 earthly can last. So open your eyes, people . . . . . . open and see…
Not a crabby old man …. Look closer . . . . see . . . . . . . . ME!!
Remember this poem when you next meet an older person whom you are tempted to brush aside without looking at the soul within . . . . . One day you and I will be there too!
Comments 9
What an amazing story, and tale of the truth we all have to face. thanks for sharing a lifetime of thoughts, charish your life charish your neighbor.
marcelino-
Profound! This made me cry……for me.
Damn. That hurt.
Such a nice gift that he left behind, I’m glad that all those people who read it appreciated it so much.
Hi there. This is a fantastic poem. However we have the same version in Ireland written by an old lady named Katie, where this poem was found in here locker back in the 1950s.
Author
Hello Donall, thanks for the interesting info. I guess that is the way things happen when something is worth passing on, it gets twisted and remade in the passing. 🙂
Wow he summed up his whole life in this poem – it made me cry and my 13 year daughter didn’t understand what was wrong with me – I pray she will grow old enough to know 1 day. We should treasure the elderly for they have wisdom no matter how small. God Bless him
Author
I understand your feelings Mandy. I reacted with emotion as well. It is hard to believe anyone would not feel the same.
I’m pretty sure that’s Phyllis McCormack’s “Look Closer Nurse” (AKA “Crabbit Old Woman”), mucked up as this version and mushy story may be.
Phyllis was a nurse at Sunnyside Royal Hospital (Montrose, Scotland) in the 60’s; the poem was published in the poetry anthology “Elders” in 1973.
Just for fun, here’s Phoebe Hesketh’s “Geriatric Ward”, a slightly different ‘and IMHO better) spin on the same situation:
…
Feeding time in the geriatric ward;
I wondered how they found their mouths,
and seeing that not one looked up, inquired
‘Do they have souls?’
‘If I had a machine-gun,’ answered the doctor
‘I’d show you dignity in death instead of living death.
Death wasn’t meant to be kept alive.
But we’re under orders
to pump blood and air in after the mind’s gone.
I don’t understand souls;
I only learned about cells
law-abiding as leaves
withering under frost.
But we, never handing over
to mother who knows best,
spray cabbages with oxygen, hoping for a smile,
count pulses of breathing bags whose direction is lost,
and think we’ve won.
Here’s a game you can’t win –
One by one they ooze away in the cold.
There’s no society forbidding
this dragged-out detention of the old-‘
…
Sorry, folks 🙂