I’m sorry I got sick,

It wasn’t fair on you,

Your skin is growing thick,

With all the stuff you do…

 

Our plans for in our forties,

They were travelled kind of things,

Not osteoporosis,

And resizing all my rings!

 

So now you are the carer,

Yet you’d no ambition to,

Become a full time sharer,

With the blood awareness crew…

 

I get lots of support,

The drugs and the attention,

You get the dirty washing,

And occasionally a mention!

 

While people send me flowers,

It’s a celebrated life,

It is you who needs the powers,

To nurse your broken wife.

 

Still think of it this way,

I will owe you now forever,

And you know that I won’t say,

If your cooking’s not so clever…

 

You field my awful platitude,

Your kind but I regret it,

You help me study gratitude,

And ask me to forget it.

 

You’ve an aim to find me treats,

Yet I’m keeping you in prison,

You’re the only one who eats,

But the questions not arisen….

 

If I could change your place,

(It’s worse for you than me)

Not sure I’d have your grace,

And I’d be fed up making tea!

 

When I think about the situation of the carer, I think exhausting, uninvited, lonely. So cheerfully done we guess it is about short straws, but cancer is far beyond the patient, it changes everything and no matter how many times you are told to put it behind you I believe it is better to embrace the people you become…

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