At the Pharmacy
At the Pharmacy
by Kelp
She comes in to the pharmacy with her caregiver,
Sitting contortedly in her chair,
Emitting continuous high-pitched shrieks,
Without a trace of denotation,
Expressionless shrieks.
Expressing what?
Happiness or pain?
Discomfort with?
Or Aversion to?
Shrieks like the scrapings of a heavy chair across a wooden floor.
Her caregiver is younger than she by about five years,
Arrived from the Philippines eighteen months ago.
This is her first job in her new country
And she wants to keep her job.
She responds with a grimace to every shriek,
And she asks, “What is it, Mary-Anne? What can I get for you?
What is it I can get for you, Mary-Anne?”
She gently pats her back as if to uncontort her,
But with no effect at all.
In another generation, the girl would be labelled.
Words like idiot, imbecile, moron, retard
Would be used,
Not the way they are used today as generalized terms of offense or epithets of scorn.
No, back then, a hundred years ago,
They were scientific terms used to designate specific types of people with specific mental states.
Such was the state of science that we, as a society, have moved on from.
Now their usage is forbidden.
The caregiver approaches the pharmacy desk
And is handed the pills in a small white bag,
With the prescription receipt stapled to the bag.
Mary-Anne does not let up,
The shrieks come strong and steady,
Unrelenting like a power jigsaw cutting through wood.
The caregiver gently adjusts her blanket and pats her back again and again.
Then she wheels her out the door and into the open air.
Mary-Anne – I am not allowed to say –
But she is fortunate to have someone to care for her.
Fortunate to live in a time in history when her humanity is acknowledged.
She is fortunate to have a caregiver.
And I am happy for her.
And I am not allowed to say,
These are things we cannot say,
But I am also jealous!
I know I come from privilege, and I have no right to shriek
That I have no one to care for me,
No one to grimace when I shriek,
No one to pat me and make sure I am warm.
Why has society allowed for her --
I know I am not allowed to say --
A person who continuously shrieks -–
The privilege of a caregiver?
And not allowed the same for me?
I, apparently, have no need of care,
But also want a caregiver.
I know, you have told me, I am the one with privilege,
But why does no one care about me?
Not the children that I raised,
Nor my friends who have cares of their own.
All I want is a caregiver, too.
Like Mary-Anne, I need someone
To acknowledge my frivolous shrieking.