To be held

Last week was the first time for ages I haven’t done a post. This was because I was in hospital for heaven’s sake, with a grim little infection (meningococcal meningitis)  that really flattened me. I had been laid low at home for the whole week before going into hospital on Thursday, where I received excellent treatment and the right antibiotics. By Saturday I was feeling much better and would love to have done a post, but didn’t have the computer.

I had my friend bring me in some poetry books to hospital, as I felt sure I would find something there that would help me amid the hurly burly of the hospital world and the unfamiliarity of being unwell. I found the following poem, which I had never read before, by a Canadian poet Alden Nowlan (1933 – 83), which really moved me and soothed me. The language is a bit ‘of it’s time’, but read over that…

He Sits Down on the Floor of a School for the Retarded

I sit down on the floor of a school for the retarded,
a writer of magazine articles accompanying a band
that was met at the door by a child in a man’s body
who asked them, “Are you the surprise they promised us?”

It’s Ryan’s Fancy, Dermot on guitar,
Fergus on banjo, Denis on penny-whistle.
In the eyes of this audience, they’re everybody
who has ever appeared on TV. I’ve been telling lies
to a boy who cried because his favourite detective
hadn’t come with us; I said he had sent his love
and, no, I didn’t think he’d mind if I signed his name
to a scrap of paper: when the boy took it, he said,
“Nobody will ever get this away from me,”
in the voice, more hopeless than defiant,
of one accustomed to finding that his hiding places
have been discovered, used to having objects snatched
out of his hands. Weeks from now I’ll send him
another autograph, this one genuine
in the sense of having been signed by somebody
on the same payroll as the star.
Then I’ll feel less ashamed. Now everyone is singing,
“Old MacDonald had a farm,” and I don’t know what to do

about the young woman (I call her a woman
because she’s twenty-five at least, but think of her
as a little girl, she plays that part so well,
having known no other), about the young woman who
sits down beside me and, as if it were the most natural
thing in the world, rests her head on my shoulder.

It’s nine o’clock in the morning, not an hour for music.
And, at the best of times, I’m uncomfortable
in situations where I’m ignorant
of the accepted etiquette: it’s one thing
to jump a fence, quite another thing to blunder
into one in the dark. I look around me
for a teacher to whom to smile out my distress.
They’re all busy elsewhere. “Hold me,” she whispers. “Hold me.”

I put my arm around her. “Hold me tighter.”
I do, and she snuggles closer. I half-expect
someone in authority to grab her
or me; I can imagine this being remembered
for ever as the time the sex-crazed writer
publicly fondled the poor retarded girl.
“Hold me,” she says again. What does it matter
what anybody thinks? I put my other arm around her,
rest my chin in her hair, thinking of children
real children, and of how they say it, “Hold me,”
and of a patient in a geriatric ward
I once heard crying out to his mother, dead
for half a century, “I’m frightened! Hold me!”
and of a boy-soldier screaming it on the beach
at Dieppe, of Nelson in Hardy’s arms,
of Frieda gripping Lawrence’s ankle
until he sailed off in his Ship of Death.

It’s what we all want, in the end,
to be held, merely to be held,
to be kissed (not necessarily with the lips,
for every touching is a kind of kiss).

She hugs me now, this retarded woman, and I hug her.
We are brother and sister, father and daughter,
mother and son, husband and wife.
We are lovers. We are two human beings
huddled together for a little while by the fire
in the Ice Age, two hundred thousand years ago.

Alden Nowlan

Reading this put me into another headspace, where it was much easier to cope with all the noise and uncertainty and weirdness of hospital wards, and with my own emotional state (up and down). Remembering that we all just want ‘to be held’ – and that I did and had felt ‘held’ – by my dear ones, especially those who were flying around me like fairies through the whole time before and during hospital, by my doctor, who was fantastic, by the hospital staff (especially during the time in Emergency) who were so focussed on getting me well, and by my friends – was very consoling.

Now I am at home again and into recovery mode, and thankfully feeling heaps better.

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5 Responses to To be held

  1. Mandy Laidlaw says:

    Oh Elizabeth. So sorry you went thtough that horrible time. I hope you are feeling much better. Sending lots of healing love and strength.
    What a touching poem ( pun intended 😆)

    • Hi Mandy,
      thanks for the love – it is great to hear from you – have been thinking of you actually and hope all is well your way. I am feeling heaps better.
      Love and strength right back at you

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