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‘Lament for the Patients’

Published online by Cambridge University Press:  02 January 2018

U.A. Fanthorpe
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Type
Poem
Information
Advances in Psychiatric Treatment , Volume 15 , Issue 2 , March 2009, pp. 136
Copyright
Copyright © The Royal College of Psychiatrists, 2009 

These were far from lovely in their lives,
And when they died, they were instantly forgotten.
These were the permanent patients, the ones
Whose disease was living. Their trophy, death,
Being to no one's advantage, was kept dark.
These had quiet funerals (no flowers,
Please), silent incinerations, hushed-up autopsies;
Their dying figured in obituary columns
Of local papers only.
On these specialists had practised specialities;
Had weighed and measured; had taken samples
Of blood and urine; had tested IQs,
Reflexes, patience; had applied
Shock treatment, drugs and nice hot cups of tea.
Of these specialists had washed their hands,
Having failed to arrive at a satisfactory
Diagnosis (anglicè: having failed to infect them
With a reason for living). Therefore they died.
To me came the news of their dying:
From the police (Was this individual
A patient of yours?); from ambulance
Control (Our team report this patient
You sent us to fetch is deceased already);
From tight-lipped telephoning widowers
(My wife died in her sleep last night);
From carboned discharge letters (I note
That you have preserved the brain. We would certainly
Be very interested in this specimen);
From curt press cuttings (Man found dead.
Foul play not suspected). I annotated their notes
With their final symptom: died.
Therefore I remember them.
These I remember:
Sonia, David, Penny, who chose death.
Lynne and Gillian, who died undiagnosed.
Peter, whose death was enigmatic.
Simple Betty, who suddenly stopped living.
Lionhearted Gertrude, who persevered to the end.
Patricia, so sorry for herself,
For whom I was not sufficiently sorry.
Julian, the interesting case. Alan,
Broken by a lorry, resurrected by surgeons,
Who nevertheless contrived at length to die.
Not for these the proper ceremonies, the solemn crowds,
The stripped gun-carriage, the slow march from Saul,
The tumulus, the friendly possessions
At hand in the dark. Not even
The pauper's deal coffin, brief office
Of the uncared-for. Only the recital
Of disembodied voices in a clerk's ear,
A final emendation of the text.
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