Dear Doctor... by Elizabeth Mace

Before I complete my three score
years and ten, my alloted span,
don’t let me carry the can
for a lifetime of self-neglect.
From this day on
protect me from myself.

Ban my cigarettes and gin,
sweet things and fried things,
the cream in my bun.
Make we walk, make me run,
shed the fat from my bum.

Give me drugs to improve
my body’s defects
and more to control the effects.
Direct me, inspect me, check
on my blood, take over from God
and make me live on.

Dear Doctor ...

I think I am ill, in need of a pill.
I am frail and thin, all bones
and skin. I walk with a stick
and my sight grows dim,
and I don’t know the date
or the day that I’m in.

My memory is shot. What’s said
and what’s done and what’s
going on is straightway forgot.
Those I love have passed on
and life’s full of loss.
And who gives a toss?

I’m no use any more.
I’ve no fire, no desire,
nothing to give or to gain.
When I was mother and wife
there was point to my life.
Now it’s nothing but pain.

But make me live on.
Scan me and operate,
irradiate my tumours
and put drops in my eyes ...
then dose me with Prozac
so I shall be glad I survived.

Dear Doctor ...

When next I land on the brink
of demise, don’t hang up
your stethescope
and leave me to fate.
Inject me, resurrect me ... don’t
count the cost to the state.

I’m too old to cope
on account of a stroke.
half deaf and half blind.
But find me a room in a home
switch on the TV
and feed me on pap from a spoon.

Then leave me to sit in my shit,
piddle and dribble and twiddle
my thumbs. I’m gone beyond
caring, three parts
round the bend, unaware
if it’s midnight or noon.

But make me live on.
One day I’ll die
and defeat you.
May it be soon!