Thread: What He Was

What He Was
by Phyllis Stewart

It was done – there was no going back.
Anxious to leave without being seen,
he hurried to pull off bloody gloves
and wash the splatters off his face,
then rapidly changed his clothes,
bundling the blood-stained garb,
stuffing it in the can, down out of sight.

He’d try to make it to his car
without being stopped by a guard
or even a casual stranger.
Closing the door, he sat by the wheel
breathing hard, not yet ready
to move, until he felt strength
again in his fingers holding the key.

He knew that the calm would come
as it always had on jobs like this,
but each time it seemed harder.
Years of this had not made him stronger,
though others had claimed it would.
Easy to say, when it’s not yours to do,
where the risks could be too great to bear.

He jerked himself up, then started the car,
taking the fastest route out of town.
He’d earned it all, he said to himself,
cruising to the country in his Cadillac,
and Ann and the kids would never want
for anything... they didn’t need to know.
The gate clicked open, he'd arrived at his estate.

Greetings and hugs and how was your day,
forced smile and the lie, fine, just fine.
Need to know basis had worked this far,
so he faked an appetite and complimented dinner.
Somehow dessert passed, and the need for facade,
then he thought, again, about quitting, but ...
no ... he was what he was, all he could be.

“Think I’ll walk off the meal,” and Ann nodded,
so, finally free, he headed for the woods,
to his retreat, a place where truth needn’t hide.
He looked up to Heaven, finally releasing the tears,
where no one could hear, he finally could rave,
“Why, God, why didn't you help me today?
Why do you take the ones I try so hard to save?”

“She was only six, with a whole life to live,
and I did my best, gave all I could give!
I used all the skill and speed I was able,
Yet you let her die right there on the table!”
Yes, he’d saved hundreds, and would many more,
for he was a surgeon, born to his call,
Again facing cruel fact – he can’t save them all.

copyright © 2011 Phyllis Stewart


Original more rhymy version:

It was done – there was no going back.
Anxious to leave without being seen,
he hurried to pull off bloody gloves
and wash splatters from his face,
then rapidly changed his clothes,
bundling the blood-stained garb,
stuffing it in tight, down out of sight.

He’d have to make it to his car
without being stopped by a guard
or even a casual stranger.
Closing the door, he sat by the wheel
breathing hard, without the will
to move until, until he felt strength
again in his fingers holding the key.

He knew that the calm would come
as it always had on jobs like this,
but each time it seemed longer.
Years of this had not made him stronger,
though others had claimed it would.
Easy to say, when it’s not you out there
where the risks could be too great to bear.

He jerked himself up, then started the car,
taking the fastest route out of town.
He’d earned it all, he said to himself,
cruising to the country in his Caddy,
and Ann and the kids would never want
for anything... they didn’t need to know.
Then he clicked open the gate to his grand estate.

Warm greetings and hugs and how was your day,
forced smiles and lies that it was fine, okay.
Need to know basis had worked this far, so
he faked an appetite and complimented dinner.
Somehow dessert passed, and the need for facade,
then he thought, again, about quitting, but ...
no ... he was what he was, and never could.

“Think I’ll walk off the meal,” and Ann nodded,
so, finally free, he headed for the woods,
to his retreat, a place where truth needn’t hide.
He looked up to Heaven, all the tears finally released,
where no one could hear, he finally could rave.
“Why, God, why did you not help me today?
Why do you take the ones I try so hard to save?”

“She was only six, with a whole life to live,
and I did my best, gave all I could give!
I used all the skill and speed I was able,
Yet you let her die right there on my table!”
Yes, he’d saved hundreds, and would many more,
for he was a surgeon, born to his call,
Facing cruel fact – he can’t save them all.

Dear Phyllis;

Somehow I knew this was a surgeon and not a hit man from the beginning. Maybe it's because we seem to think along the same lines sometimes (not that I have your gift of expression). This piece tugs at the heart strings. Your central character is all that he should be. He does all that he can, yet sometimes he fails. I guess we all sometime question. Most of us, fortunately do not face the life and death issues. I didn't enjoy this write (who would?) but you gave a another side of an honored profession. Your perspective strikes me as very accurate. Excellent extrospection.

fp

Fp, thank you for your comments. So you guessed it... wow. I say "wow" because I read it to my hubby, who can predict what will happen in most any movie, and even knew Bruce Willis was dead in Sixth Sense, but this caught him off guard. Quite an accomplishment, I thought. Then along you come and pop my balloon.

I wrote this right after reading Lisa's poem on surgeons, which was so negative, though brilliantly written, of course. I thought I'd show surgeons from their own vantage point. I don't have much faith in most doctors, since they get lazy and turn into vending machines for drug companies, at least many of mine have. But I have enormous admiration for surgeons. They can't afford to get lazy... in the O.R. you can't just hurry through patient after patient to get the day over with. For 3 to 8 hours at a time, they stand, half bent over a table, always aware that one lapse of concentration can end a person's life. I know I could never do what they do. These are not just doctors, they are saviours to those who need them. So I wrote this as a rebuttal to Lisa's poem, as you have probably guessed by now.

Phyllis interesting poem..you have the gift to turn important topics into poetry whicgh is commendable..a real eye opener.
the first stanza is powerful..who needs a movie or hollywood ..

Just a quick note, since I spent most of my time on Glass's poem, and now I don't have time for a thorough crit. Anyway.

I think the rhyming weakens this poem substantially. I like that you tried to use it sparingly, but it's a bit too playful-sounding for such a serious subject matter. Consider adjusting the lines so that it's in free verse? I mean, it's up to you, of course, but I'd be interested to see what you come up with if you decide to make the change.

Also, I thought he was a hit man. I'm terrible at riddles, though, so take that for what it's worth!

Bach, thanks for your input. I tried to avoid most rhymes except in the end, where I was going for a crescendo of revelation, so a style change there was part of that effect. But I do see your point, so went back and removed all rhyming lines except in this different-feeling end part. But I do think you are right about the style not fitting the serious subject matter, so I think I will let it sit for a few days or weeks, then redo it in with more of a prose feel as you suggest.

You were supposed to think he was a hit man, right up until his raving at God for letting the little girl die in surgery. I deliberately tried to mislead readers. I failed to mislead fp, but succeeded with my hubby and now with you, so I think it worked okay.

Looking back through it, hopefully you can now see (1) why he had bloody gloves and clothes, and (2) why he hurried out of the hospital not wanting to be seen, since he was near tears and didn't want to break down in public. (3) He sat a while in his car trying to calm down before driving. (4) He made a lot of money as a surgeon, and was glad he could support his family well, (5) but he never wanted his family to know how much he suffered when he lost a patient in surgery, since that would only depress them and there was nothing they could do to fix it. (6) When he lost a patient he always thought about quitting, but he could not imagine doing anything else, since surgery was his calling, and he did save hundreds of lives with his skill.

When he finally got the chance to be alone, he burst into the tears he'd held back for so long, and told God how he felt about the girl dying when he tried so hard to save her. That's when the reader is supposed to be surprised and rethink all his assumptions about the guy. He was not a hitman after all, but a caring and good man with a sensitive soul. Now, I hope, you see him as exactly the opposite of a heartless killer. That surprise turnaround in your mind was my goal, anyway.

Very nice, I knew where you were going with this. Good story line. I respectfully disagree with Bachelorette, :} I do like the delicate rhyming scheme . Thanks. Peace...Jul

Right, I knew you were being deliberately misleading. All I meant was that I'm so poor at seeing a surprise ending coming in general that the fact that I was fooled at first is not a good measure as to whether or not you were successful in being misleading or not to the average person, who may be a bit quicker on the uptake than myself, haha.

Asking for help with last line here. I keep changing it and trying new wording, till I can't "hear" it anymore. Any suggestions?

then he thought, again, about quitting, but ...
no ... he was what he was, and never could (lame original)

then he thought, again, about quitting, but ...
no ... he was what he was; he'd never stop.

then he thought, again, about quitting, but ...
no ... he was what he was; he couldn't stop.

then he thought, again, about quitting, but ...
no ... he was what he was, all he could be. (best yet?)

Or __________________???

Wow! That was a poem. I like the unrhymed version better, helps the reader to concentrate on the story.

Love the poem. It shows the reality that we can't save them all, no matter how hard we try. A good life lesson. I will be missing you Phyllis.