Poem: Sounds of My Life

Here is a poem I wrote about the sounds Michael always heard in the hospital:

Sounds of My Life

Beep—Beep—Beep
Goes one of the many meticulous, medical, machines,
Monitoring every pulse, heart rate, and oxygen level in my problematic body.
Its constant ringing in my ears and flashing of lights in my eyes seem to never stop,
Constantly accompanying me during the long, dull days in the busy, bustling hospital.

Baa—Baa—Baa
Go the herds of white coated interns (or so I like to joke),
Scurrying around from room to room like anxious sheep in a tight-knit flock.
Their sheep-like appearance and frequent gatherings in my small, cramped room,
Regularly provide comic relief for my Mother and I as we try to stifle our snickers.

Cough—Cough—Cough
Go my ever-infected, mucus infested lungs,
Projecting up whatever goo they can in order to clear my overly obstructed airways.
My continual coughing is like a natural instinct for survival, not a simple reflex,
Determinably fighting to purge my body of the clogging secretions in order to breathe.

Tap—Tap—Tap
Go the keys on my laptop computer as I chat with friends from far away,
Connecting me to my life back at home—to the world I should be in right now.
The two-way contact, keeps me up-to-date on the latest gossip back at my Ohio home,
Continually giving me something to hope for and look forward to.

Hiss—Hiss—Hiss
Goes the face-covering bi-pap machine which forcefully shoves air into my lungs,
Allowing me to rest my enervated muscles and catch up on some much-needed sleep.
The medical facemask, hardly like my high school football helmet back at home,
Thankfully protects me from the imminent ventilator, instead of ferocious linemen.

Vroom—Vroom—Vroom
Go the roaring race cars down the first long turn at the Brickyard 400,
Zooming around the track in a blur of colors as they bring the screaming fans to their feet.
Even though I am forced to watch from my hospital bed this year, I still faithfully tune in,
Energetically yelling at the 6” T.V. set as I cheer on Jeff Gordon and boo Tony Stewart.

Click—Click—Click
Goes the thin, clear feeding tube, in my thin, flat stomach,
Pumping the non-appetizing meal of liquid food into my lean, lanky body.
The nausea I constantly experience painfully curbs my appetite,
Cruelly preventing me from chomping into a savory slice of juicy steak.

Ha—Ha—Ha
Go my labored laughs which frequently turn into coughing fits,
Attempting to express my amusement in the jokes made by my ridiculously funny friends.
Their visits give me enthralling entertainment as they animate my beloved stuffed animals,
Magically transporting me away from the hospital and into a world of jokes and laughs.