The Bath (Holly Hughes)

Cycle 4, off week


posted by Lissa mcKinley on Friday, October 23, 2009 Edit





Good morning, everyone. I am off this week, thank goodness! The medical school is now full of sick students who have or probably have the novel H1N1 flu...so, guess what. I have it too. I have been struggling under the weight of the person pinning my limbs to the bed, or so it seems. He seems to be easing his hold this morning, however. Ugh. But a better ugh this morning than the last few mornings.



I wanted to tell everyone how wonderful the poetry reading was by Holly Hughes and Tess Gallagher! I think I was beginning to feel poorly at the event, as I was really dragging there, but I still appreciated the specialness and intimacy of the event. I think we had about 8 or 10 students and 6 or 8 faculty members.



Both of these poets had lost mothers to Alzheimer's. Holly H. realized that this experience has probably been shared by writers across the globe, and she solicited pieces for this book and got 500 submissions. She edited this down to the 100 that make up the book.



She asked Tess G. (Raymond Carver's wife) to write the forward. So Tess read her forward about the year she moved her mother into her house as she died of Alzheimer's. Then they both read pieces from the book. I think what was most remarkable was the sense of witnessing this illness in a new way through poetry--poetry that is so urgent and accessible. In addition, most pieces, and certainly both poets, related that there were always pieces of light in these Alzheimer's stories. Gifts that both caregiver and patient received.



The students were riveted. In most cases, they don't have much experience being immersed in the human side of disease, and I think this is what poetry does, doesn't it. It makes the subject lived by the reader. anyway, it was a remarkable two hours--funny, poignant, sad, horrible, hilarious and always gorgeous. how inspirational!



Here's an example:



The Bath



(Holly Hughes)



The tub fills inch by inch,

As I kneel beside it, trail my fingers

In the bright braid of water.

Mom perches on the toilet seat,

Entranced by the ritual until

She realizes the bath’s for her.

Oh no, she says, drawing her

Three layers of shrits to her chest,

Crossing her arms and legs.

Oh no, I couldn’t, she repeats,

Brow furrowing, that look I now

Recognize like an approaching squall.

I abandon reason, the hygiene argument,

Promise a Hershey’s bar, if she will just,

Please, take off her clothes. Oh no,

She repeats, her voice rising.

Meanwhile, the wter is cooling.

I strip off my clothes, step into it,

Let the warm water take me

Completely, slipping down until

Only my face shines up, a moon mask.

Mom stays with me, interested now

In this turn of events. I sit up.

Will you wash my back, Mom?

So much gone, but let this

Still be there. She bends over

To dip the washcloth in the still

warm water, squeeze it,

lets it dribble down my back,

leans over to rub the butter pat

of soap, swiping each armpit,

then rinses off the suds with long

practiced strokes. I turn around

to thank her, catch her smiling,

lips pursed, humming,

still a mother with a daughter

whose back needs washing.



thanks to everyone who brought food this week! the timing was perfect! More news next Friday.

the picture is the cover of the book Beyond Forgetting: Poetry and Prose about Alzheimer's Disease.