Just when . . .

. . . we acclimated ourselves to the $350/hour shrug by complacent psychiatrists seesaw of Bipolar life, Medical Doctors proudly (by way of tests) declare weighty physical diagnosis like heart failure, severe edema (not endamame), osteoarthritis, Spinal Stenosis and an unconscionable number of my life hours enduring the shotgun pellet spray of “these should help” pain reducer until the tide of physical illnesses recedes. I’ve lost the moniker “difficult to diagnose” to the “everything bagel” patient. When did MD’s quit being curious and courageous?

Hidden In My Blind Spot

I’m in the hospital: been since
Thursday, the day
my body packed on
seven pounds in two
days.  Med. Staff scurry like Lillyputians
upon sleeping Gulliver; all rubber-gloved
hands on deck!  Your charge: bee-line
to Admitting forthwith.  Cardiac
Floor has custody; such largess traded
for freedom; headboard resembles
cockpit; heart monitor spies
on any movement: feels like house

My body threatens
my brain: both had breakdowns
mirroring the other: breakdowns
are my blind spot; mental
and physical illness collapse
beneath rubble of well-being’s
bombardment by remediless

A short while ago
my brain and my heart
were bright with promise
and smart with life’s storyline.
Today however, I can be found
in the scratch and dent
discounted department.