The new doctor
With every new doctor, I start again.
Trying to explain my condition
to him, or her.
Trying to explain my level
of cognition;
the drugs I’ve had; the
therapists I’ve listened
patiently to;
the vocabulary acquired
and absorbed,
like a didactic sponge.
The lack of need for oft-repeated
facts and figures;
the stolid ‘1 in 4’ quotation.
I am the thing itself;
not a stat or senseless
person; thin and rosy.
I know which drugs I can
tolerate; to what strength
and dosage. I speak the
language of clinicians and
medical rhetoricians;
I have been at the sharp end
of suicidal ideation
and withdrawal. I have swam in
the mucky, tatty scum of
autumnal dross.
I have absorbed all manner of hurt
and castigation.
I can stand the ‘end of days’
prognosis.
Look up at me.
See the length of my experience.
Observe its ample girth and
prescience.
The truth is, I know more than you.
You have read about me;
now here I am.
An apple in a bowl of pears.
And I have lasted longer than anyone
might have been led to expect.