Mary frightened me again,
not like she used to,
like a newborn
unable to communicate.
Then she scared me
as all infants do,
only her infancy lasted
six years.
But this time the fear
comes from not being able
to take away her fear.
New electrons flash
across synapses
stealing from her
the hard-won control
in which she so prides herself.
This time I am able to comfort
by my presence only.
Powerless,
wanting to embrace
and pray away
this new
terrifying disaster.
Only whimpering,
Mary braves the painful
twenty-minute injection
of the powerful sedative
that will stop the seizures.
And we learn to laugh--
the laughter of relief--
at the rubber duck
who rolls in slow motion
from the chair to the floor
to be bathed in kisses
from the Labrador twice her size,
her guardian angel.
Another battle in survival
where experts said
survival is not possible.
