Awkward.
She
does not know,
she
is going
to die.
Don't want
her
to live in
fear.
Will not
rip away
hope.
At least,
she's
still
fighting.
Makes me
feel
good.
Like
an actor.
You alienate
yourself.
My hands
are tied.
It is
living
hell.
Editor's Note:
This poem was derived from the transcripts of the interviews with the caregivers described in the paper in this issue: The extra burdens patients in denial impose on their family caregivers, by N. R. Kogan, M. Dumas, and R. Cohen. It is a form described as poetic transcription, in which the transcripts are condensed to their essence.