"On the twigs of her wrists, my mother's
hands |
Mother's Crystal Earrings  |
One of, if not the, last times/time I was with my mother in Tulsa in happiness she awakened me at dawn to shimmy up the mimosa tree to return a baby robin to its nest. The treasure and beauty of her children, nature and Emerson were her life. In fact she so valued me that soon after that event she had begun to take on my identity, an attempt to replace the torture of her own ego. The tardive dyskinesia began almost immediately following the poisonous injection of fluphenazine and the motion never remitted. The progressive exchange for identity never remitted. On the day she died, 15 years later, she had become convinced that indeed I was the imposter. Viewing her finally quiet, now in death, filled with joy I share her peace. -- © 17 March 2004, wlw |
| * Excerpt from "Tardive Dyskinesia"
by Michael Mack, Cambridge, Ma. © Poetry and Medicine JAMA, March 10, 2004 Vol. 291. No. 10 |