Three Months

    by Ariela Sarah Taub

Fingers intertwined

Like the interlocking twigs

Of a robin’s nest.

A swarm of white coats

Shuffles to the foot of the hospital bed.

“How are you feeling?

Rate it from a 1 to a 10.”

Again, they ask this.

Again, my wife sighs.

“A 6,” she says,

But they know she lies.

Her pain is uncontrolled,

Morphine, Tramadol, Dilaudid,

There’s nothing left to be tried.

No drug can heal the words,

“Three months.”

Three months.

50 years,

That’s what we should have left together.

On your wedding day you picture your forever –

From bottles and bassinets

To worldwide adventures and

And rocking, hands held,

On your front porch steps,

Musing about all the warm memories

You’ve shared together.

Not three months,

Not stained hospital gowns

And runny oatmeal,

Constant blood draws

And endless questioning

From nurses, doctors, and medical students.

Marble white skin,

Silver streaked hair,

Wrinkled wings

Winking at the corner each eye.

“If you need anything we’ll be here,”

And fast as they came,

The swarm disappears

To the next bed over.

© 2015  Ariela Sarah Taub

Dr. Ariela Sarah Taub studied biology as well as creative writing from Johns Hopkins University where she also served as editor of her university's literary magazine.  She is a recent graduate of The University of Maryland Medical School.  She is also co-founder of the nonprofit organization Music is Medicine.