I nearly collapse in the lift,

you locking your iron arm around my waist.

The doctors and nurses shift,

darting eyes,

wary of this spectacle, this strange

mother-daughter trembling statue –

but you’re used to it by now.

The lift doors open,

I take in the white chemical corridor ahead.

The paediatric door wavers at the end,

the Final Destination

in this journey of self-destruction.

There, I know they will take my

weight, height, blood –

numbers which will determine my worthiness of help.

No courage sits in my heart.

That will come later,

morsel by morsel,

as my body is re-filled and my mind re-worked.

Now, there is only dread.

But that iron caress stays melded to me in pure, desperate love.

As I stumble down that blinding corridor

into the white heat of recovery,

through the grey blur of therapy

and clawing death-hands of relapse,

I never leave that anchoring embrace.

My piecemeal, quivering courage comes from you, Mum.

Featured image: Sneha ss on Wikimedia Commons with licence.