The time that I dread

Is between old and dead.

When naught but confusion

Has filled up my head,

And I can so easily

Be deceived or misled.

When family and friends

Are but strangers instead,

Or what I’m trying to say

Can’t seem to be said.

When physical control

Just seems to have fled

And hair is so thin

It shows my pink head.

When sight is so dim

Big print can’t be read

Or most of my meal

Is a hand full of med.

And like a small child

I must be spoon-fed

Or held by the hand

And carefully led.

When I’m tied in a chair

Or confined to my bed,

And a soothing warm shower

Is a spit-bath instead.

And nursing homes and doctors

My resources have bled.

To pass on with dignity

This mortal to shed,

I’ve thought of the possible

And whimpered and pled.

Oh yes, it is true....

The time that I dread

Is the time I might spend

That’s between old and dead

May Baker Winkel © 1999