{"id":2446,"date":"2018-02-15T12:00:34","date_gmt":"2018-02-15T12:00:34","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/wp.lancs.ac.uk\/translatingpain\/?p=2446"},"modified":"2018-02-15T12:00:34","modified_gmt":"2018-02-15T12:00:34","slug":"the-sick-mother","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/wp.lancs.ac.uk\/a-bel-abroad\/the-sick-mother\/","title":{"rendered":"‘The Sick Mother’, by Amy Wray Irish"},"content":{"rendered":"

(after a poem by Jane Kenyon)<\/span><\/p>\n

The sick mother stayed in the car<\/span>
\n During swimming, music, dance.<\/span>
\n Not yet fifty,<\/span>
\n She had learned the many ways<\/span>
\n The able-bodied become just bodies.<\/span><\/p>\n

Afternoon always came too quick<\/span>
\n With its carpools and constant motion.<\/span>
\n She was still the secretary<\/span>
\n Of details and schedules.\u00a0<\/span>
\n Still indispensable.<\/span><\/p>\n

So in between finding the lost<\/span>
\n Shoes or suits or permission slips\u00a0<\/span>
\n And driving– always driving–<\/span>
\n She tilted her seat back, tucked<\/span>
\n A swim towel or bag beneath her head<\/span><\/p>\n

And let the pain pill sweep her into freedom.<\/span>
\n Free from the other mothers, lips pursed,<\/span>
\n Pulling their children away from hollow eyes.<\/span>
\n Free from the fathers, eyebrows raised,<\/span>
\n Lingering to admire gaunt cheekbones.<\/span><\/p>\n

Fever-flushed under windshield glass<\/span>
\n She is free to dream a storybook self,<\/span>
\n And a kiss to break the curse<\/span>
\n Of endless doctors, tests, and drugs.<\/span>
\n A fairy tale of never being sick again.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

– by\u00a0Amy Wray Irish<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

To read more see Creation Stories<\/a>, a book of poetry and art by Amy Wray Irish<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

(after a poem by Jane Kenyon) The sick mother stayed in the car During swimming, music, dance. Not yet fifty, She had learned the many ways The able-bodied become just bodies. Afternoon always came too quick With its carpools and constant motion. She was still the secretary Of details and schedules.\u00a0 Still indispensable. So in… Continue Reading ‘The Sick Mother’, by Amy Wray Irish<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":36,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"site-sidebar-layout":"default","site-content-layout":"","ast-site-content-layout":"default","site-content-style":"default","site-sidebar-style":"default","ast-global-header-display":"","ast-banner-title-visibility":"","ast-main-header-display":"","ast-hfb-above-header-display":"","ast-hfb-below-header-display":"","ast-hfb-mobile-header-display":"","site-post-title":"","ast-breadcrumbs-content":"","ast-featured-img":"","footer-sml-layout":"","ast-disable-related-posts":"","theme-transparent-header-meta":"","adv-header-id-meta":"","stick-header-meta":"","header-above-stick-meta":"","header-main-stick-meta":"","header-below-stick-meta":"","astra-migrate-meta-layouts":"default","ast-page-background-enabled":"default","ast-page-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"ast-content-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[16],"tags":[48,59,109],"class_list":["post-2446","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-anthology","tag-disconnection","tag-escapism","tag-strangeness"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p9mjRE-Ds","jetpack_likes_enabled":false,"jetpack-related-posts":[{"id":3595,"url":"https:\/\/wp.lancs.ac.uk\/a-bel-abroad\/she-asks-if-its-raining-outside-by-jane-hartshorn\/","url_meta":{"origin":2446,"position":0},"title":"‘She asks if it’s raining outside’, by Jane Hartshorn","author":"strongs","date":"May 19, 2018","format":false,"excerpt":"She asks if it's raining outside while she takes my blood pressure. I ask if I should take my shoes off before I stand on the scales. Sharp scratch, she says before she slides in the needle. Four vials of blood, all with sticky labels. I take the foil plate\u2026","rel":"","context":"In "Anthology"","block_context":{"text":"Anthology","link":"https:\/\/wp.lancs.ac.uk\/a-bel-abroad\/category\/anthology\/"},"img":{"alt_text":"","src":"","width":0,"height":0},"classes":[]},{"id":2957,"url":"https:\/\/wp.lancs.ac.uk\/a-bel-abroad\/when-the-stars-threw-down-their-spears-by-jacqueline-woods\/","url_meta":{"origin":2446,"position":1},"title":"‘When the stars threw down their spears’, by Jacqueline Woods","author":"strongs","date":"March 29, 2018","format":false,"excerpt":"The television I bought five years ago sits in the corner of my room. It helped me through those morphine nights where my lung drain, like a sick umbilical cord\u00a0 snagged from my side.\u00a0 I would watch Countdown at 3 a.m., clasping\u00a0 the puppetry of sign language like a charm.\u2026","rel":"","context":"In "Anthology"","block_context":{"text":"Anthology","link":"https:\/\/wp.lancs.ac.uk\/a-bel-abroad\/category\/anthology\/"},"img":{"alt_text":"","src":"","width":0,"height":0},"classes":[]},{"id":2464,"url":"https:\/\/wp.lancs.ac.uk\/a-bel-abroad\/i-need-duvet-days\/","url_meta":{"origin":2446,"position":2},"title":"‘I need duvet days’, by Nicole Brown","author":"strongs","date":"February 20, 2018","format":false,"excerpt":"by\u00a0Nicole Brown","rel":"","context":"In "Anthology"","block_context":{"text":"Anthology","link":"https:\/\/wp.lancs.ac.uk\/a-bel-abroad\/category\/anthology\/"},"img":{"alt_text":"Image of the poem (with formatting in different fonts and sizes) together with an image of a broken white mug and some shattered pieces of that mug against a black background. 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I feel different; my body is telling me there is a problem. Seventeen have passed. I\u2019m sitting in a room where time has stood still. 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