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Tuberculosis - A holocaust of the prime
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Pectoriloquy
]
Editor’s Note: The author writes, “This poem is a real story of a patient I had treated in Internship. A young woman who succumbed to tuberculosis, in spite of inexpensive and widely available treatment owing to the superstitious stigma surrounding the regimen. I am a Non-PG Resident, working in the department of Neurosurgery, at Christian Medical College & Hospital, Ludhiana, India.”
Tuberculosis - A holocaust of the prime The curfew tolled the knell of the parting day, Left the world to darkness, with the sun heaving a sigh, A lone rider in the mist, mistress moon has the final say, Pick up your hat she said, lay down your troubles, rest is nigh. “Mamma”, the child cried, snubbing the silence of the moon, With skin silky as a dream, and eyes that sparkled like the star on high, She looks like mommy’s little mold, with daddy’s little toes, a little toon “Everything seems perfect”, said the dream which closed to a bye. Her Her Her Her
ears heard it first, the strident incessant beeping of the reality, so unkind, throat sensed it sooner, the uncomfortable air giving tube, eyes still bleary to the labyrinth of the ventilator tubing, all in a bind, heart beating for her child and man, while the waveform made a loop.
Tuberculosis they said, was a disease of time, Give it reverence, and it will fade, purify and it will wane, ‘Lunger’, they called her, a holocaust of her prime, Yet, yield not to the potions of the English man, ye who are sane. There she lay in the prison of her body, a silent unrest against fate, Laughter and tears, fear and lust, She’d known them all, but now she must wait, As she becomes one with the dust. Will she hear the song of the nightingale anymore? Will she smell the scent of the rain hitting the soil? Will she remember the two souls she leaves behind at the shore? Not anymore, not anymore, spare the toil. If only you gave heed to the English man, From his red pills, would come the salvation of the lunger. George Vilanilam Ludhiana, India
Copyright Ó 2017 American College of Chest Physicians. Published by Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. DOI: http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.chest.2017.05.013
chestjournal.org
1087
Pectoriloquy
]
Editor’s Note: The author writes, “This poem is a real story of a patient I had treated in Internship. A young woman who succumbed to tuberculosis, in spite of inexpensive and widely available treatment owing to the superstitious stigma surrounding the regimen. I am a Non-PG Resident, working in the department of Neurosurgery, at Christian Medical College & Hospital, Ludhiana, India.”
Tuberculosis - A holocaust of the prime The curfew tolled the knell of the parting day, Left the world to darkness, with the sun heaving a sigh, A lone rider in the mist, mistress moon has the final say, Pick up your hat she said, lay down your troubles, rest is nigh. “Mamma”, the child cried, snubbing the silence of the moon, With skin silky as a dream, and eyes that sparkled like the star on high, She looks like mommy’s little mold, with daddy’s little toes, a little toon “Everything seems perfect”, said the dream which closed to a bye. Her Her Her Her
ears heard it first, the strident incessant beeping of the reality, so unkind, throat sensed it sooner, the uncomfortable air giving tube, eyes still bleary to the labyrinth of the ventilator tubing, all in a bind, heart beating for her child and man, while the waveform made a loop.
Tuberculosis they said, was a disease of time, Give it reverence, and it will fade, purify and it will wane, ‘Lunger’, they called her, a holocaust of her prime, Yet, yield not to the potions of the English man, ye who are sane. There she lay in the prison of her body, a silent unrest against fate, Laughter and tears, fear and lust, She’d known them all, but now she must wait, As she becomes one with the dust. Will she hear the song of the nightingale anymore? Will she smell the scent of the rain hitting the soil? Will she remember the two souls she leaves behind at the shore? Not anymore, not anymore, spare the toil. If only you gave heed to the English man, From his red pills, would come the salvation of the lunger. George Vilanilam Ludhiana, India
Copyright Ó 2017 American College of Chest Physicians. Published by Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. DOI: http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.chest.2017.05.013
chestjournal.org
1087