And then … a story of caregiving and poetry

Benita Helen Kape

It all began when my husband Pat, always a keen sportsman, had difficulty walking off the course one morning after a round of golf with his mates. Within a week we were in Auckland Hospital and Pat was in the process of recovering from a major spinal operation. This was a school of learning neither of us ever for a moment thought we would have to face. Both of us were healthy, even seeming young for our age. Pat had been retired for two or three years, and I had only a few years of work ahead of me before I would join him.

Things didn’t go well; the operation took longer than expected. Pat was cheerful, a tone that wavered little until much later. He was a man who saw the best in people. Bravely he struggled with rehabilitation, and we returned to Gisborne. Several days later, he became seriously ill. Meningitis was managed and contended with. We are forever grateful to all the doctors, nurses and agencies involved in his care.

Three months later he came home and a whole new life began for us. At first it wasn’t full time care, but the moment he lost his balance – he who loved baking his favourite sultana cake, this time with his daughters’ help – we knew it truly wasn’t ever going to improve: left arm useless, total assistance required with toileting and showering. And so the journey continued, slowly at first, but over time becoming close care 24/7.

I’d been writing for some years, and had one or two things published. My computer was in another room but Pat was within view and I could come to his aid the moment I was needed. Pat became my first reader, and quite often my editor. He always preferred the first draft.

We had ups and downs, mostly ups, and drew closer. Much about our lives was enriched; we had loving supportive family and friends. For the first four years I did pretty well everything myself, with the family taking over once a week so that I could keep on with my job at a plant nursery. Eventually the time came when we needed the help of agency caregivers for cares like showering.

Sometime after the ninth anniversary of Pat’s operation, leukaemia was diagnosed, and we knew that time really was growing short. Only in his final short months did Pat go into a Rest Home with specialised care.

Well before then I’d started a folder called ‘Caregiving poems’. Pat passed away ten years ago. The folder grows, poems are added from time to time. The following poems were written the year before Pat passed away.

 It takes two baby

The poem wants to put
his feet to the floor. On
occasion he can do this
unaided. But there are
days when together we
must work as a team.

Still flat on his back,
slowly, at first …
he slips his feet
over the edge
of the bed.

I stand back;
mindful of his space.

And, then, holding the slippers
just so …
ease them over his toes,
and, carefully now, up
the heels which are
encased in padded dressings.
Oh, how careful we have to be.

To me you are
the stuff of
language, phrases
emphasis.

I can find no adequate
metaphors to address
the feet to floor poem;

it is simply a departure.

Independence is his most days,
when aptly; (beautiful, beautiful word)
he levers the body of the poem
to a sitting position. As the other
member of the team I have an
attendant’s role. (How it angered me
when on your discharge from hospital
I had to sign a declaration of care.
The vows I’d made in church
forty years ago is all we need.)

Oh, poem you cannot gather
your clothes, let alone wash
yourself; get yourself a meal
or medication.

I go about this in a flawed way;
have moments of anxiety,
arguments,
joy.

But the poem is out of bed,
his feet to the floor;
and it takes two baby.

Like skin (a Tanka sequence)

talking to the therapist
of a need
for the hospital bed
his eyes and mine
fill with tears

advances in medicine
hardly any difference
in the “pressure” patch
and
your beautiful skin

discarding
yet another
“pressure” patch
I also toss
a film of shit

early morning
poems
to beds
tears
and shit

he prefers
me to prep
and place
the “pressure” patches
I despair of my skills

---

Benita Helen Kape is a poet who lives in Gisborne, New Zealand. Her work has appeared in many online journals, in ‘a fine line’, NZ Poetry Society’s bi-monthly magazine and in Manifesto Aotearoa: 101 Political Poems (Otago University Press, 2017).