Platelets low.
Again.
He tracked his numbers in a spreadsheet like he did the stock market
before there was an app for these sorts of things.
Infected.
Again.
More antibiotics
loose stool
fevers
pneumonia.
Nosebleeds.
Again.
Wiping his life away as it seeped from his nose.
Blotting it goodbye
with his old-fashioned
handkerchief.
Bruises.
More.
Here
there and
everywhere.
Rinse and repeat.
Depleting
Repleting
Depleting
Again and again.
Infusions
Delusions
Transfusions
Perfusions.
Rinse and repeat.
He graduated from Myelodysplastic Syndrome to Acute Myeloid Leukemia—
Not the cap and gown once yearned for
moons ago.
Can he stay back?
I wondered.
Pomp and circumstances
not wanted.
The labs did not lie.
We all saw the end
drawing near
despite best efforts.
Two bags of red.
Platelets too.
A lot of work
little yield.
Marrow failure.
Old French (faillir): meaning
“to fail, be lacking, or fall short”
which itself comes from
the Latin fallere (“to deceive” or “to trip up”).
At the French Library, years before, in Boston
in a home built in 1867
with a pressed button-down shirt under
an expensive cashmere sweater
from Barneys
he studied and learned and conversed
sometimes he fumbled, persevered always
to better himself
to commune with culture
until he was fluent
en français.
Bleeding to death tis
not for the faint
of heart—
being mortal never is.
Do not go gentle—
he surely didn’t.
A stubborn resistance.
Rinse but not repeat
Au revoir, Papa.
Authors Note
“The Handkerchief” was inspired by the death of my beloved father. As an accomplished businessman, marathon runner, world traveler, and mountaineer, he was used to solving problems almost always with successful outcomes. Bone marrow failure, however, was the one obstacle he could not solve, and the poem is intended to explore the intersection of being a patient/caregiver and the respective feelings associated with staring at death from both perspectives. I specifically wanted to depict the years of unrelenting pain and disability which were in stark contrast to his previously fit mind and body. My intention was for the poem to have some form and rhythm (e.g., again and rinse and repeat) but also to have a sense of chaos and variation and discord that aligns with losing control during a terminal illness. I wove in his love of learning French not only to highlight who he was and what made him tick but also to underscore that death, since the dawn of time, transcends all cultures and languages.
Guiding Questions
Consider the following questions after reading the poem:
- What does the poem reveal about the lived experience of always thinking about “numbers” (i.e., of platelets, transfusions)?
- What does this poem tell us about the patient’s and/or family’s experience with illness? Which particular words or lines communicate that?
- What is the importance of the handkerchief? What might it symbolize? Why might the poet have chosen this as the title for the poem?
- How might the glimpse of the father’s earlier life impact how he is viewed as a patient? How can details like this impact patient care?
- What does the poem communicate about grief and loss?
About the Author
Sarah Slattery is a Visiting Scholar at Yale’s Interdisciplinary Center for Bioethics with a focus on gender bias in medicine and rare diseases. She completed her graduate work in physiology at Columbia University and was enjoying her career in employee well-being until she was sidelined by the neuromuscular disease myasthenia gravis. Sarah lectures for the Summer Institute in Bioethics and is passionate about making sure patients and providers partner to avoid delayed diagnostic care. When not working, Sarah loves to read, write, and travel. She lives in Connecticut with her family.
