Pain is something we all deal with, though the form (and the amount, of course) may vary. We tend to waste our time thinking our painful situations over, reliving the climax of the hurt and searching for its source. I am guilty of this quite often, but time and time again I am shown what good can come for the man who makes the best of his situation.
My cousin and best friend has dealt with his fair share of pain. To begin, he is a tremendous athlete. Competetive. Mean. Built like a truck. In high school, he was diagnosed with Aortic Stenosis, which is a heart condition where blood passes too forcefully into your aortic valve, causing the walls of the valve to dilate. In several cases, the subject is never aware of the problem, and the aorta suddenly bursts, killing him or her instantly (this is my basic understanding). I learned a couple lessons from this terrible diagnosis:
1: Making the best out of your situation will lead to the best outcome, and will bring peace to those around you.
I remember arriving at the hospital, furious that this had happened to him. When I walked in the room, a group of people sat around my cousin, laughing at a joke he was telling. He hugged me and said "Calm down. I'm fine." He never lost his spirit, and his positivity became contagious. Two months after a successful surgery (four months before he was to be 'fully recovered') he was playing high school basketball--the closest thing to a miracle I've ever witnessed.
2: Don't waste time sulking, worrying, or searching for answers. Take control of your situation, lean on the people around you, and take steps to improve.
One thing that helps me maintain my faith in humanity is the unity that follows tragedy. People come together. My cousin had overwhelming support; people made him food, brought him gifts, donated money, and not once did he act like he deserved it. He stayed grateful and used his support to expedite his recovery.
Following his heart surgery, two years of college basketball, a torn ACL, surgery, recovery, and two years of college football, my cousin began to focus on his career.
His dream was to be a police officer, but the lack of money in our state's bank account meant a small hiring window for most departments. He would finish in the top ten on the hiring list of several departments, but eventually the list would expire without any officers being hired.
When he finally received a position (not as a police officer, but a good-paying job in the right direction), the company approached him upon completing his physical and said the hiring process may be put on hold--because of his heart.
I wrote the following poem after hearing this news. It is written more for a spoken performance, but it reminds me of my cousin's perserverance. I responded to the news by angrily writing a poem. My cousin responded by taking control of the situation, and, once again, shooting down the barriers in front of him, all while keeping a smile on his face. What did it get him?
Last month he was officially hired by the Aurora Police Department.
So, if you're having a bad start to the week, keep fighting!
Have a great night!
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Death to Aortic Stenosis
My cousin, burly in size,
was kept from his job because
it required him to lift 25 pounds multiple times
And the doctor wouldn’t sign;
He tells me this news as the bell rings,
so I shake it off and begin teaching Iambic pentameter
to a room of bobbing heads, lulling them to sleep with
da-DUH, da-DUH, da-DUHs;
I wish I could give them a stethoscope to place on the breast of the poem,
letting them hear each word beat to Shakespeare’s rhythm.
I ask for the fans of the art to show their hands.
None.
Besides the kid in row one
who is a fan of everything.
So I ask myself, out loud,
“Why do I like poetry?”
To perhaps prompt an answer from the crowd.
None.
Not even from the kid in row one
who has an answer for everything.
So I probe on.
“What if a poem meant something to you?
What if it had a pulse, like a heart,
that thumped so much the verses bulged from the page?
What if poetry had a beat, unnatural
yet still enough to bring the words to life?
What if poetry flowed like blood,
each line of a villanelle a vein to your body
that livens you, enlightens you, fills you
with so much passion and power that you want to explode?
And what if every ounce of that passion
pounded into the limits of your lines,
pushed you to the brink of bursting,
So the poetry doctor who monitored your poem
told you “no more” to everything you worked hard for?
Gone,
because the beat of your quatrain
Was one Iamb away,
One da-DUH too many,
and all you were left with was a dream,
Unfulfilled, sagging in your outstretched arms
Like a limp, lifeless body,
Fingertips still tingling with fading fire,
Your beat still beating the same rhythm,
Pounding,
passion plenty
But still one da-DUH too many.
Then what if you wrote about it?
Would you take a stethoscope
And press against the breast of that poem,
And feel the pain in each da?
Each DUH?
Would it mean something to you?
Would you like poetry then?
"each line of a villanelle a vein to your body"--NICE
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