Diary found in a care home

Like a rabbit caught in the car headlights,
down a dead end street,
We sit here and wait to die,
hoping for that last heartbeat,
Such darkness as never wore,
its torture face on me before,
Now I am the ornament,
behind this care home door.

The noise of hell’s routine,
the conveyor belt to bath times dread,
I have never known such fear;
I am alone in this wet bed.
No one to hear me cry,
no hope of comforts mercy,
I mothered seven children,
now no child to comfort me.

Postscript

This short poem, first published on the “Care Community Action” website http://wp.me/p6mG19-Q , represents but a minute insight, into the horror that I know from personal experience is taking place behind closed doors in many care homes in this country. We all – yes all, will one day be subject to this so called care, if we live long enough…

I strongly believe we cannot trust or allow health professionals or politicians to deal with this adequately. From experience, unless you personally are prepared to work with social activists it looks hopeless.

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