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My First Poem in Years – First Draft

The Crohn’s Survivor who didn’t Care
By Christopher Smith

There I was.
A skeleton of a human being.
I was nothing….  Nobody.
“Chris Smith IS a generic person.”
Just another careless high school kid.
I thought I always will be,
I thought I’d never be anything different from,
Naïve, young, careless, conforming to the will…

I started to wonder…
Was my name picked for a reason?

Yet, there I was.
A drone amongst drones.
Still eager to earn a weekly pay.
Five Fifteen to start,
What a miserable day.
Only by the sweat of my brow,
Working, sting, desperate, occupied.

I needed a change.
Something to cleanse my day.
To change my ways.
To break the main.
Something before insane?

Care about the kids at school?
Or when the friends acted fools?
Ask my parents,
They’ll tell you!
I didn’t care about a god damn thing.
Sometimes Mr. IDGAS was the name!

This shouldn’t be true.

Somehow, I did and I was.
Why did I?
Why did I work?
Why did I work so fucking hard?

It was only fitting.
For, at work was when it happened.
I felt the pain.
The fever bubbled inside of me.
Gravity took me,
With a crash it left me.
The liquid spread,
The sickness I dread.
The bottle empty,
A grunt,
It stunned me.

“What am I doing…?”

The realization hit me,
Couldn’t give in,
I was stubborn and candid.
It broke me down,
Turned me around.

I went home in a hurry,
The car, silent and girly.
It seemed like forever,
My speech,
The next endeavor.

My worries were prepared,
To the doctor we revered.
The appendix was to be cured,
I still can’t stand in the mirror.

Greeted with a chair,
A throne for those in fear,
Proved my stance was impaired,
But urged by a timid battle cry,
“Onward!  Into the surgeon’s lair!”

Now, it seems, I might finally need to care…

A trip down the hall,
Proved to be a wakeup call.
I reached the shaft,
It echoed, abstracted.
The ring started,
My vision tarnished.
Hands multiplied.
I lost my head.

“Was I really dead?”

I didn’t see the hand of God,
The wrinkly hand of a nurse instead!
I probably thought of my summers playing DoD.
Always will be my favorite mod.

Via a gurney,
I took my journey.
Under the knife (of a wise Indan),
I spent the night.

However, the Night’s Dreams I cannot remember.

ICU during a rude awakening,
A humble feast but the nurses were catering.
The night before left me scarring.
And why are we all staring?
With more tubes than hair,
“But the pain on my side?”
Ha!  Don’t feel too daring!

A tube in my nose,
Into my stomach.
One in my…  Well…
Let’s not go that far.
Another in my arm,
Something a druggie might charm.
I still couldn’t care,
The morphine?
Like fighting a big grizzly bear!

Everyday they ate,
For me,
No food for a week.
Everyday they stayed,
All I could do was sleep.
Finally they heard me say…
The ICU was not a treat.

I moved into the penthouse,
My own room,
My house!
That’s when he came,
To visit me again,
To tell me of his heroic deed.
He saved me from death.
To the brave Indian man!
Whom I owe the greatest of debts!

I still did not eat.
I chewed on ice,
I still did not eat.
I chewed on gum.
I still did not eat.
They took out a tube.
I still did not eat.
Weeks went by.
I still did not eat.
They said I could eat!
I ate.
I didn’t want to eat.
I lost all my weight,
I couldn’t eat.

Ugh! My recovery was steep…

But, the lessons learned I cannot forget,
From Crohn’s Disease I’ll never be cured.
I can finally stand in front of a mirror,
Look at me!  Someone I actually revered.
The betterment of the human condition,
That’s my beacon for creative ignition.
Now I have a purpose,
I must,
I Care.

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