The Sick Society

Jun 02, 2009 10:42

As I'm in an Irish frame of mind, this piece by Dublin poet Nessa O'Mahony struck a chord

Accident & Emergency
That is no country for old men;
the youth get sloshed
and stagger through double doors,
tattoos on their arms,
eyes stoned.

The old men wait,
knowing their turn
is a moveable feast,
despite the bluecoat's promises
they are eighth on the list.

And still they wait,
observe the to and fro,
the quick dispatch
of those who arrived
much later than they,
assess whose recovery
would seem the better bet.

Day crawls into night,
the digital clock
a silent mockery,
(you'd need a calendar in here)
names called,
anyone's but theirs.

Glued to wheelchairs,
their motions
are at the whim
of orderlies.

The old men wait;
they know they have no choice.
It has been ordained
by those who perhaps forget
how time passes.

It's certainly not far from the truth. My cousin had her appendix out in March, but had to wait several hours before being attended to.  Nearby, elderly women lived out their last days on hospital trolleys, waiting for beds to be vacated by the dead.

ireland, health, dublin

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