Hi - my first posting here. Struggling so much to cope with my husband’s PD: it’s helping to express what’s happening via poetry.
Sounds of tentative stirring in the dark
dawn and you begin another struggling day.
Sleep and dense brain-fog envelop all of
you, tendrils dragging you back to dis-ease:
it would be easier to deny gravity than
drag yourself into a new day.
Fingers, feet, words and thoughts refuse you.
Anxiety, depression, lassitude overwhelm.
Fear, sadness set up camp, taking all the
space, leaving nothing for joy, for hope, for vigour.
The drugs will, eventually, give some of yourself
back to you, temporarily. They will restore a
version of you with which to occupy the
space of a day. You will do your best to
battle the feinting terrorist.
You will want to show us all that you
can manage, the family-script stoic
raising proud head and carrying on.
Oh, what it must cost you, darling,
to reassemble the tesserae of you, of almost-
you, into the shape of the day.