My chest is noisy…

This is dedicated to my cousin Sue.

My chest has been noisy for two days now. My inhalers don’t make much difference. I emailed my doctor’s practice to ask if I could be seen and nebulised but they don’t read emails. I got a stonking email when it was too late, telling me, again, to phone. I replied, again, that the music makes my heart race and talking is not always easy. They do not learn that they are required to make reasonable adjustment.

I am a bit short of breath with this noise. I feel a bit concerned. I am going about my usual activity but get tired so easily.

Martin put up the arch across my path in the garden. I am so happy about it. I have chosen some plants to grow up around it. It is exciting. It will be carefully planned.

I have been made to think I am dying. I am, but in a far longer time frame than I was given to think. I am angry at a certain paramedic who scarred me. And another for his total lack of empathy, kindness, and compassion.

By Chrisssie Morris Brady

I've read poetry since I was nine and have written creatively since I was fourteen (probably long before that). After writing book reviews and social comment, I decided I wanted to write poetry. I have no formal training, but I surround myself with poets and their writing. I am honing my craft.
I have two published collections which I don't feel good about, but have been published by and other publications. I live on the south coast of England with my daughter. I am seriously ill.

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