Fondly

I remember my illness fondly

as a time when my illusions

about just about everything

were gently set aside, the way

the nurse’s aide gently set aside my reading glasses

and the book I was trying to read in spite of

the pain–putting them just over there on the table

out of the way of what was more important just then,

which was the undeniable fact

that I needed to be washed. For I hadn’t

washed in several days, married as I was

to the bed, the commode, the drainage tube,

and the pain. Yes, I was married

to the pain, which had a distinct element of monogamy–

it refused to share my attention

with anyone or anything, not even

with other pain. But finally the bed bath

got my attention: the nurse’s aide gently

lifting my hospital gown–an indignity,

a humiliation at first–as I lay there helpless

and pale and naked, the soapy wet

washcloth sliding across my chest and belly

and genitals, my thighs and calves. And when it got to

my feet, taking each of my toes one at a time

with an almost this-little-piggy tenderness,

that’s when my resistance melted away

and in its place an acceptance and a warm gratitude

gripped me so tightly that I couldn’t stop whispering

the little choked thank-yous and bless-yous

escaping like too much air or too much

love from my dry, constricted throat, which was

still sore from the breathing tube. Slippery

though they are, I have tried to hold on to that acceptance

and that gratitude, which came from or were part of

my illness, which I no longer have but remember

fondly, now that I am well.

Paul Hostovsky’s poems have won a Pushcart Prize, two Best of the Net Awards, the FutureCycle Poetry Book Prize, and have been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, The Writer’s Almanac, and the Best American Poetry blog. Website: paulhostovsky.com