Where do they love you the least?
Where do they show you the heart of a beast,
That on human pain and suffering and death makes feast;
Where the well-oiled machinery, and the gears well-greased,
Move on, and grind you up if you fall in; don't step out of line.
Where is it that they have no real complaint department to complain?
Where, if you question or complain, you are walking near a land-mine.
Where is it that they don't care about your pain?
And where they even increase your pain needlessly;
As when they drew blood from Brian and gave him shots,
In veins where it hurt him, till he cried to me: "Michael, help me;
I feel like a human pin-cushion."  Brian had a chemo port they could have,
And should have used.  A painless port; but they couldn't be bothered.
They went on inflicting needless pain on precious Brian, heedlessly.
When I asked them to use the port; and, finally, when I complained,
I was the bad guy, to them.  What cared they for Brian being pained?
Where is it, that you encounter hearts that are so inhumane?
Two places did this same thing to Brian--hurting him with needless pain.
Objection to this torture was treated like plain hard-headed not complying.
I still see the wincing pain in precious Brian's eyes.  And I still hear his cries.
They chafed at pleading requests for pain relief, and callously didn't care.
Where is it that they don't even care about the fact that you are dying?
Where is it that uncaring, cold hearts greet with disapproval your crying?
Places where you are so not supposed to make any waves,
On your painful journey for a place among the dreamless dust of graves.
Their own pamphlets tell you that the patient is in charge.
But the difference between propaganda and reality is bitter and large.
If they tell you, "Sit here"--you better sit there.
Or they'll tell you, "Why must you be so difficult?"--and they do not care
That your precious dying friend, dying ahead of you, needs you close;
Your request to sit close by him is seen as something you arbitrarily chose,
Just to make trouble--they cannot see your heart breaking with love,
As your friend suffers in that chemo chair, and needs you to be there.
I call for help from God, from whatever is there, from angels above--
It is so lonely to be in that chair alone.  I wanted to be there with him.
Sometimes I was; but sometimes I was treated like I was wrong to be.
Brian is dead now; I have no reason to be in that chemo room,
Until my next treatment fails, like the last one, on my path to  doom.
When you are suffering and dying from cancer, where is the least love?
Two places: Hospitals, especially the emergency room;
And the cancer clinic where my friend was treated till he died,
Or rather till the hospital emergency turned a minor issue into death.
The cancer clinic, where  I wander in fear and pain, facing future horror;
The cancer clinic, where I am the least loved, of any place that I could be;
Except the hospital, whose ER doctor's abuse sealed Brian's needless death.
I never would have guessed before.  Almost unbelievably, that is the reality.

==============================
Written by Michael LP, aka MLP
aka PoetWithCancder, aka PWC, aka Mr. Poet
Written on Sunday, March 20, 2011  1:26 pm PDT
62 degrees F.  Humidity: 20%   Forecast: overcast
Copyright (C) 2011 by Michael LP.  All rights reserved.