The Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine

Wheelchair

Paul Rousseau, M.D.
PalliativeDoctor@aol.com

I am

sitting here listening to
The Beatles, nowhere
to go, my albatross 
of humility securely
anchored beneath my
dignity—a wheelchair.

a wheelchair—a metal scaffold
to guide stagnant journeys,
a transporter of cynical hope, 
a device of vacant futures
filled with vulnerability
and an early death.

who thought at 52 years
I’d be imprisoned in this
nomadic contrivance
designed for the frail and
infirm, bound by an
unforgiving and callous 
cancer. 

surrounded by a community 
of condolence, I am now 
alone with my cluttered 
thoughts and malignant 
scourge—

and a wheelchair.

(dedicated to Charlie R)

Author's Commentary

What must it be like to be confined to a wheelchair at age 52, a tumor maturing in the left lung, a metastasis setting up residence in the thoracic spine? In the poem Wheelchair, the story of a previously healthy and robust veteran named Charlie is told from my limited perspective as his physician, a perspective that is colored by a subjective interpretation of his words, actions, and silence as he grudgingly accepts his life-threatening diagnosis and a demeaning incarceration in a wheelchair. The angst of being physically segregated from the ambulatory and condemned to a societal membership among the frail, the infirm, and the disabled is emotionally and tragically demoralizing to Charlie, and thrusts him into a world of isolated silence. As the purveyor of his story, I do not pretend to understand Charlie’s torment, or the torment of anyone confronting the finality of a terminal illness, but rather submit it for others to consider, to contemplate, and to ponder, as illness will certainly enter all of our lives sooner or later.

Published: July 28, 2006