The Wrong Beds, by Roger McGough

Lent, Day 16

Life is a hospital ward, and the beds we are put in
are the ones we don't want to be in.
We'd get better sooner if put over by the window.
Or by the radiator, one could suffer easier there.

At night, the impatient soul dreams of faraway places.
The Aegean: all marble and light. Where, upon a beach
as flat as a map, you could bask in the sun like a lizard.

The Pole: where, bathing in darkness, you could watch
the sparks from Hell reflected in a sky of ice. The soul
could be happier anywhere than where it happens to be.

Anywhere but here. We take our medicine daily,
nod politely, and grumble occasionally.
But it is out of our hands. Always the wrong place.
We didn't make our beds, but we lie in them.

I have spent more time in hospital wards this last year, with my Mum, than I'd ever imagined - some special memories of her and of our family gathered around her. But very concerned at the ethos prevailing in our NHS, especially towards the elderly.

Walked off across Rectory Park to get photos of our main local hospital, Good Hope, and then remembered the small Cottage Hospital, so walked over to Birmingham Road - what a charming looking place. All shut up, though, so imagine it is a daycare only place. Thought I'd find all sorts of interesting things on the internet about it, but all I've discovered it that it was opened in 1908, and that Good Hope was originally built as a convalescent place for folk who'd been here first. It provides services such as physiotherapy and help for continence.

Notice the double meaning of "lie" in the last line of the poem. We do lie to ourselves when we imagine we'd be happier somewhere else - only an excuse for not engaging where we are and living fully what we are actually living at this moment. Something I have to remind myself of almost daily.

Having said all that, it does feel as though it would be easier to cope with suffering in this hospital than in Good Hope!