Frustration

This poem requires a little background information; it is a "location" poem, if you will.

In December 2005, I broke my left foot completely off my leg. I was told at the time I would never walk again. I wrote this poem in the throes of rehab and steadfast refusal to accept my non-ambulatory fate.

Perhaps this poem is weird or lame out of context; however, it is one of my all-time favorites and this is my blog and I am going to publish it. So there!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I.
Late one morning,
working at home,
I drink the last drop
of the ambrosia that gets me going.

Instead of just getting up
and getting another cup of coffee,
I have to:

search my office for the walker;
remember it’s near the ramp that gets me from one level of my house to the next;
roll over—in the office chair—to said ramp;
hop one-legged [with the walker] up the ramp; and,
roll [in a second office chair] across the house—
“rowing” with my good leg—
to get to the kitchen.

Where the coffee pot is.

Only to discover…

I left the coffee cup
behind.

So then it’s back
in rolling office chair #2;
once more across the house;
back to the ramp;
stand up with the walker;
hop one-legged down the ramp;
sit in office chair #1;
roll back into my office; and,
retrieve the cup
from its spot
on my desk.

I roll once more to the ramp;
place the cup in the basket on my walker—
now one of my most prized possessions—
and go through the whole process

once more.

I fantasize about the day
when I can do
what others do
unthinkingly.
What others can do in one fluid motion
instead of 37 choppy steps.

Going through the process twice more,
I finally arrive
back at my desk
in my office.

I raise the cup to my lips
ready to begin again
the ritual
of work.

I’ve forgotten the cream.


II.

It happens every semester.

Some young man enters
my classroom
and assumes
he knows more
than I.

He refuses to call me Dr.;
he refuses to participate.
When he does,
it’s wildly
inappropriate.

He refuses to study;
he refuses to prepare.
He’s upset when he fails;
it’s all my fault.

He refuses to give up
his Freudian ideal
of the inferiority of women.

I love a good challenge.

I thrive on proving
them wrong.

This term,
not only am I a woman,
I’m disabled.
The young man is now
also threatened
at the sight of
physical disability.

I have never wanted to stand up so badly.

I don’t know which is worse:
my frustration with the oblivious narcissism of the young;
my frustration over the unending battle between the sexes; or,
my frustration with a body
that doesn’t work
like it used to.

Then, I realize
what I endure
is what some people endure
every single minute of
every single day.

Then, I feel ashamed.

My frustration melts away
as I understand
I have nothing
about which
to be
frustrated.

That frustrates me, too.


III.
I think a lot about
what it would be like
to be
Queen.

You command;
they do.
You primp;
they pamper.
You sigh
they dote.

Since the accident,

My friends are all
so very willing
to do my
every bidding.

They make sure
I do
nothing
on my own.

They smile
and they
cater
my every whim.

It’s all so making me…

sick.

“Be careful what you wish for—
you just might get it…”

I would give my kingdom away
to walk through it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The end of the story is: A mere four years later, defying all medical prognostications, I am completely ambulatory. On warm days, I even walk without a limp. So there!