It Was The Worst Hour of My Life

It was the worst hour of my life,

I wish it could have gone on longer,

You'd just suffered a rectal exam,

I wish you'd been feeling stronger,

Your spirits were crushed, almost defeated,

I wish it could have gone on longer,

They assisted your toilet, I won't repeat it,

I wish my faith had been a little stronger,

Your virtual silence, the noise of 'your' machine,

I wish it could have gone on longer,

My awkwardness, won't you minister to me,

I wish my faith was a little stronger,

32 names, only yours stood out,

I wish it could have gone on longer,

I see in you the first seeds of doubt,

Maybe the roots grew a little deeper,

Cancer is the seasoning that brings out the taste for life,

The hill of faith got a gradient steeper,

In the car I cried to Springsteen when he sang of his wife,

I wish it could have gone on longer,

My fire's impotence in the face of the sun,

I wish my faith was a little stronger,

Your shallow breathing, I cling on to your thumb,

I wish it could have gone on longer,

'cos your drip's in the way, my dearest Mum,

Please, please, please, just a wee bit longer,

If I could I would fold your paper-like skin,

If only my faith had been a bit stronger,

And write on your page your best friends hymn,

I wish it could have gone on longer,

And fold you to an origami swan,

Oh my God just a little bit longer,

And set you free to flee like a bird from the coming storm,

Oh my God, just a little bit longer,

But we sit instead in silence,

Oh my Mother, just a little bit longer,

And awkwardly forgive each other's silence,

Oh Mum, won't you be a bit stronger,

And I can't fucking stand to see you this way,

But I wish I could see it for a little bit longer,

But now you are gone and I am sorry to say,

I know that I need to be stronger,

It was the worst hour of my life,

But I wish it had gone on a whole lot longer.

M. Joseph Burt   (20.8.5)



This poem was written just 3 weeks after my mother's death in 2005. She was just 56 years old and died 3 months after a cancer diagnosis. It was not the cancer that killed her but her death resulted from an embolism in her lung. She was on assisted breathing for the last weeks of her life and this was how she was existing at the time of the event described here in this rather raw poem, the last time I was to see her alive. 

I would happily retract the entire sentiment of the poem now, now enough distance has passed. If I had known the outcome was certain I wouldn't have wanted her to endure any of the indignity or suffering that she had to face. Given the nature of her condition, the speed was, in retrospect, something of a mercy to her. However at the time of writing this poem, in that exact moment, all I was aware of was that I would have given nearly anything to gain some of those extra moments with her, because even the awful moments felt better than the terrible and bleak prospect of no more moments.

I apologise for any offense caused by use of a particular Anglo-Saxon word, however It serves as a record of the rawness of that moment. 

God has bought me much comfort since, and the grief though not entirely gone (it will never go completely) is greatly, even mostly eased. Back then I wanted to cry and scream and howl and swear.