The natural and particular worry of any parent

I have the natural and particular worry of any parent
who takes their second youngest to a clinic in another country
to have a needle inserted into the soft center of their hip bone
and from there draw out a liter or so of marrow
and mere hours later to be anesthetized, then injected
with a harvest of stem cells into ligaments lying across
the spine and right jaw joint, and to hope
these sites freely receive the recipe for regeneration.

Now to wait, pray, worry and hope
that this therapy might not merely
rid him of radiating numbness
but shed those meteoric sessions of pain,
endured for decades,
against which my own troubles are such small potatoes
as to be a form of comedy.

And yet, this is our experience, our path.
Your own will be different, has been different,
but not untouched by the ever-present witness
that life is tragic,
and that this
(can it be said?)
as much as love,
tethers us all together.


20 Comments

  1. This poem transforms ashes of tragedy to beauty in a pattern of tethered pain that I will take with me as I visit at long term care.

  2. So lovely and poignant, Stephen. And the final line is so beautiful. Hoping things start to get better from here on out. All the best!

  3. Aaaargh… so much pain for toooo many years searing within the body of your gentle kind lovely and loving butterfly. Soon, hopefully soon, he shall find peace within the painlessness. Hugs and love to you all.

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