When an
old lady died in the geriatric ward of a small hospital
near Dundee, Scotland, it was felt that she had nothing
left of any value. Later, when the nurses were going
through her meager possessions, they found this poem.
It’s quality and content so impressed the
staff that copies were made and distributed to every
nurse in the hospital. One nurse took her copy to
Ireland. The old lady’s sole bequest to
posterity has since appeared in the Christmas Edition
of the News Magazine of the North Ireland Association
for Mental Health.
….And now this
little old Scottish lady, with nothing left to give to
the world, is now the author of this simple, yet
eloquent, poem, each of you are reading today. It goes
to show that we all can leave something of great value,
greater than
wealth. “What do you see,
nurses, what do you see? What are you
thinking when you’re looking at
me?” A crabby old woman, not very wise.
Uncertain of habit, with faraway eyes? Who dribbles her
food and makes no reply when you say in a loud voice,
“I do wish you’d try!”
Who seems not to notice the things that you
do, and is forever losing a stocking or shoe,,,, Who resisting or not, lets you do as you will,
with bathing and feeding, the long day to
fill…<
;span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family:
Arial">Is that what you’re thinking?
Is that what you see? Then open your eyes, nurse;
you’re not looking at me. I’ll tell you who
I am as I sit here so still, as I do your bidding, as I
eat at your will. I am a small child of ten, with a father
and mother, brothers and sisters, who love one
another. A young girl of sixteen, with wings on
her feet, dreaming that soon now a lover
she’ll meet. A bride soon at twenty – my
heart gives a leap, remembering the vows that I
promised to keep. At twenty-five now, I have young of my
own, who need me to guide and secure a happy
home. A woman of thirty, my young now grown
fast, bound to each other with ties that should
last. At forty, my young sons have grown and
are gone, but my man is beside me to see I
don’t mourn. At fifty, once more, babies play around
round my knee, again we know children, my loved one and
me. Dark days are upon me, my husband is
dead; I look at the future and shudder with
dread. For my young are all rearing young of
their own, and I think of the years and the love that I
have known. I’m now an old woman,,,and
nature is cruel; ‘Tis jest to make old age
look like a fool. The body, it crumbles,
grace and vigor
depart.There is now a stone where I once had a
heart. But inside this old carcass a young
girl still dwells, and now and again my battered heart
swells.I remember the joys, I remember the
pain, and I’m loving and living life over
again.I think of the years,,,all too few, gone
too fast, and accept the stark fact that nothing can
last.So open your eyes, nurses,
open and see,,,,not a crabby old woman; look
closer,,,see
ME. Remember this poem when you
next meet an old person who you might brush aside
without looking at the young soul
inside.We
will one day be there
too!
