Everest - a Poem

A poem about the insurmountableness of my stairs some days. Living with ME/CFS

Hello friends,

I’m aware that I’ve been posting maybe a bit too often. So I’ve tried to rein it in a little. It’s Wednesday so poetry or prose day. Have a poem. (Ignore any grammatical mistakes especially apostrophes- my English teacher told me not to bother as I always get them wrong, and I have zero belief in my ability any more - I have dyslexia, leave it at that.)

This was written whilst in a bad ME/CFS crash. After this event, and Lordy climbing those stairs was hard.

A mountain of stairs to be climbed

Everest

Today the stairs are my Everest,
each step a Herculean effort to ascend.
At base camp a large dog sleeps,
his form, irregular and treacherous, 
bumped up against the bullnose,
lying in wait before the first step. 
“Please don’t rise, please don’t rise.”
He will take me out if he does.

By step 3 I’m huffing, puffing.
I need oxygen, 
the air seems thin and rarified 
lungs already burning, 
muscles already aching.
I long for crampons to aid my feet,
to dig into the wool carpet giving 
grip and stability.
Progress is slow. 
Smooth wooden
balustrade and spindles 
hauled on.  

breath 
rasps
sharply
and 
I 
rest. 

Will I be today’s victim of the slope?
Will future travellers
between first floor and ground
discover my body, 
desiccated under the piles of 
laundry never taken up?

Digging deep
I haul myself up.
Half way there. 
“I can do it, I can do it.”
If only the setting cement would remove itself from my limbs,
the iron belt remove itself from my chest. 

2 more steps to go. 
I dig deeper, 
breathe deeper, 
gather my fortitude.
strengthen my resolve.

Knowing my luck, 
I’ll forget 
what was so important 
that I needed to climb this mountain 
before I reach the top.

“And up we go.” 
I say this out loud,
as though the words have strength 
and can drag me up 
letter by letter.

Wooden spindle by wooden spindle,
hand over hand, 
progress is made,
and the top newel post finally embraced,
it’s smooth rounded cap rubbed 
ever more shiny by my grateful hands.

The peak 
is reached.

And 
I plant
the flag 
of 
my 
exhaustion
there.  
		February 2024

Or buy me a coffee.