A Good Sick Girl Never Gives Up

A good sick girl would never give up.
She pushes on in search of a cure,
working as if all depended on her.
“Not knowing beforehand” what she should do,
she moves doggedly from doctor to doctor
and test to test, would never rest

      except, of course when money is tight
      (which it always is). A good sick girl
      knows when to stop wasting her family’s money
      on that which bears no fruit, the useless pursuit
      of miracle cures

            except, of course, for miracles
            that come from God. A good sick girl
            always seeks those, remembering Sarah
            who laughed at the angel. She adds her name
            to prayer rolls, requests heavy-handed
            administrations, repeatedly and in variety

                  except, of course, when it’s God’s will
                  that she not be healed. And then she’ll yield
                  her will to God patiently, knowing he
                  will strengthen her back. She doesn’t lack
                  humility.

She would never complain
      except, of course, to us,
      her true friends, her safe space—
      we answer with grace when she asks for help,
      never notice, as we drop off casseroles,
      her manicure, the craft she completed, though laundry
      stacks up and the children run wild.

A good sick girl looks clean and neat
for her doctor so he’ll know
she’s not wallowing, know she wants
to get well.

      But she mustn’t look too neat
      or he’ll doubt that she means it
      when she says she can’t cope.

            Being good, she won’t question
            the advice that he gives her,
            and proves her desire for healing
            with exact and detailed obedience

                  except for when
                  he’s mistaken, which he often is. And so
                  a good sick girl will research her symptoms
                  herself, allow the guidance
                  of Spirit and common sense,

                        though she would never
                        Google her symptoms, an obvious
                        trick of the hypochondriac, proof
                        of negative thinking, something she avoids
                        like the plague (which she probably
                        doesn’t have, though she’ll check).

Nor would she chase after quacks
and shamans of alternate therapies,
knowing it is a waste of her family’s money,
a pitiful lack of faith—

      unless it’s something God has led her to
      by putting someone right in her path like a drunk Laban—
      for example, that guy who helped Aunt Fern—
      now he’s obviously got a God-given gift,
      and if she refuses to even give him a chance,
      she’s being close-minded, just giving up,

and a good sick girl never gives up.