We are all born to die,
Like it or not this fact
is an irrefutable, unpalatable truth.
What is incredibly difficult to reconcile
is if this sentence appertains to a child.
He was born in May 2017,
premature after a difficult gestation.
From the onset it was evident
there was something amiss
with this tiny scrap of humanity.
The powers that be poked,
prodded, needled and bled
a body under stress and attack,
attempting to decern the cause,
reasons for his state of being.
The scrap of humanity was not
expected to survive …. he did.
DNA testing was a final assault
a chromosomal congenital fault
growing, growing, growing,
in defective intensity through
three generations – father to son,
father to daughter, daughter to son.
Floppy baby syndrome, diagnosed
Technically correct - Myotonic Dystrophy.
He had been born without a single muscle
in his entire body in working order.
Wyatt, his name, could not swallow
tongue and throat muscles defunct,
arms, legs, neck – muscles defunct
digestive system, bowels all defunct.
Mechanics for his tiny heart, his lungs.
Wyatt became a medical anomaly,
wires, tubes, needles, external bags
internal sacks he became a cyborg
more machine than flesh and blood.
This little man must have suffered
unimaginable pain but he could
not speak or tell of it, bed-bound,
house-bound, trapped in a useless shell.
Who can know his thoughts, his feelings,
know even if he had either in his shell.
This little boy brought me to my knees
in horror, realisation, pain, and love,
three short years he lived, if such a life
may be deemed living, and I loved him,
oh, how much I loved him, totally
with a fierce protective jealous love.
for the short time he graced my life.
My own flesh and blood Cherub,
My little Great-Grandson, Wyatt Golden.
His difficult journey ended during Covid.
I was not there to love him on
his final journey from life.
He was almost four years of age,
not much to live for but he
enriched my life in multiple ways
Left a huge hole in my heart that
Will never be filled.
Wyatt Golden May 15th 2017 – May 13th 2021
Biography.
Janet Stoyel is a Practicing Wordsmith. After a long career in Textiles, Janet now focuses her attention upon Creative Writing. Janet writes for the pure appreciation and joy found in language: in letters: words, sentences, she chooses, organises, weaves, and constructs, her written vocabulary into her distinctive freeform language.
Janet lives in a small Somerset Village in the UK. It is a sleepy, rural area of Wetlands noted for the growing of Willow and the making of baskets – a great place to write!
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