The Centre - healing, companionship, mind, body, spirit, Kent.

CRABBY OLD WOMAN

When an old lady died in the geriatric ward of a small hospital near Dundee, Scotland, it was believed that she had nothing left of any value. Later, when the nurses were going through her meagre possessions, they found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in hospital. One nurse took her copy to Ireland. The old lady's sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas edition of the News Magazine of the North Ireland Association for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on her simple, but eloquent, poem. And this little old Scottish lady, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this 'anonymous' poem winging across the Internet.

                 Crabby Old Woman

                 What do you see, nurses?
                 What do you see?
                 What are you thinking
                 When you're looking at me?
                 A crabby old woman,
                 Not very wise,
                 Uncertain of habit,
                 With faraway eyes?
                 Who dribbles her food
                 And makes no reply
                 When you say in a loud voice,
                 'I do wish you'd try!'
                 Who seems not to notice
                 The things that you do,
                 And forever is losing
                 A stocking or shoe?
                 Who, resisting or not,
                 Lets you do as you will,
                 With bathing and feeding,
                 The long day to fill?
                 Is that what you're thinking?
                 Is that what you see?
                 Then open your eyes, nurse,
                 You're not looking at me.
                 I'll tell you who I am
                 As I sit here so still,
                 As I do at your bidding,
                 As I eat at your will.
                 I'm a small child of ten
                 With a father and mother,
                 Brothers and sisters,
                 Who love one another.
                 A young girl of sixteen
                 With wings on her feet
                 Dreaming that soon now
                 A lover she'll meet.
                 A bride soon at twenty,
                 My heart gives a leap,
                 Remembering the vows
                 That I promised to keep.
                 At twenty-five now,
                 I have young of my own,
                 Who need me to guide
                 And a secure happy home.
                 A woman of thirty,
                 My young now grown fast,
                 Bound to each other
                 With ties that should last.
                 At forty, my young sons
                 Have grown and are gone,
                 But my man's beside me
                 To see I don't mourn.
                 At fifty once more,
                 Babies play round my knee,
                 Again we know children,
                 My loved one and me.
                 Dark days are upon me,
                 My husband is dead,
                 I look at the future,
                 I shudder with dread.
                 For my young are all rearing
                 Young of their own,
                 And I think of the years
                 And the love that I've known.
                 I'm now an old woman
                 And nature is cruel;
                 'Tis jest to make old age
                 Look like a fool.
                 The body, it crumbles,
                 Grace and vigour depart,
                 There is now a stone
                 Where I once had a heart.
                 But inside this old carcass
                 A young girl still dwells,
                 And now and again,
                 My battered heart swells.
                 I remember the joys,
                 I remember the pain,
                 And I'm loving and living
                 Life over again.
                 I think of the years
                 All too few, gone too fast,
                 And accept the stark fact
                 That nothing can last.
                 So open your eyes, people,
                 Open and see,
                 Not a crabby old woman;
                 Look closer. . see ME!!

Remember this poem when you next meet an old person who you might brush aside without looking at the young soul within . . . we will one day be there, too!