The common phrase 'good girls take care of family' reflects a deeply ingrained social expectation, often referred to as 'Good
Dr. Stephen Gill contributed this poem “Mother of an Aids-Ridden Son†on World Aids Day.
December 1 is the World Aids Day to generate greater public awareness to this horrific epidemic that kills millions of children or their parents every year. Here is a poem by Stephen Gill to participate in the awareness:
MOTHER OF AN AIDS-RIDDEN SON
He developed thrush in his mouth
and a lesion in one ear
that seriously damaged his hearing.
He got pneumonia in both lungs.
His every breath became a battle.
The disease slowly
destroyed the body,
attacking his spinal cord
and central nervous system.
Cataracts filming
his eyes,
made every movement more difficult.
He was beginning to hunch
as the disease ate him.
His shaving kit bulged
with containers of pills:
he took thirty-six a day.
He was a throw-away person--
pale, week and lonely;
for his mother,
the rotting disease
was taking away her dreams.
Both knew time was short
but hung on hopes
for a cure.
During the first three months
it was hard for them to deal with
the death sentence--
Doctors gave him six months.
She constantly comforted him
as they discussed
flowers for funeral
with tears in their eyes--
carrying a pain
that tore her insides.
In such days
of anger and despair
she was still bonded with her son.
She quit working
as resources dwindled.
She is not wonderful
as some letters suggest--
only a mother.
She gave him months of her love
as she watched
the horror of his dying.
She wants to hold him
in her arms once more.
She has now
sorrows and memories to own.
She did not cry
rather was deeply mad
because of how he became infected
and mad at the lifestyle
he was forced to live
and mad because every minute
a haemophiliac in the world dies.
© Stephen Gill
MOTHER OF AN AIDS-RIDDEN SON
He developed thrush in his mouth
and a lesion in one ear
that seriously damaged his hearing.
He got pneumonia in both lungs.
His every breath became a battle.
The disease slowly
destroyed the body,
attacking his spinal cord
and central nervous system.
Cataracts filming
his eyes,
made every movement more difficult.
He was beginning to hunch
as the disease ate him.
His shaving kit bulged
with containers of pills:
he took thirty-six a day.
He was a throw-away person--
pale, week and lonely;
for his mother,
the rotting disease
was taking away her dreams.
Both knew time was short
but hung on hopes
for a cure.
During the first three months
it was hard for them to deal with
the death sentence--
Doctors gave him six months.
She constantly comforted him
as they discussed
flowers for funeral
with tears in their eyes--
carrying a pain
that tore her insides.
In such days
of anger and despair
she was still bonded with her son.
She quit working
as resources dwindled.
She is not wonderful
as some letters suggest--
only a mother.
She gave him months of her love
as she watched
the horror of his dying.
She wants to hold him
in her arms once more.
She has now
sorrows and memories to own.
She did not cry
rather was deeply mad
because of how he became infected
and mad at the lifestyle
he was forced to live
and mad because every minute
a haemophiliac in the world dies.
© Stephen Gill
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