Huntington's Disease

By Jeannine Dutton

Jeannine's husband Scott has Huntington's Disease.

I hate this disease,
With all the waste that it leaves.
Where once there was laughter,
Now silent refrain.
The freedom of light,
Has gone from your eyes.
The vacancy is invariably there,
Creating your disguise.
There is no mercy,
For you or for me.
It drips with the blood,
Of each independence it's robbed.

The gem of our love,
Polished precious by the years,
I will keep safe from your monster.
The changes it forces,
I will not allow,
It to rob me of you,
And me of me, somehow.

I hate this disease.
No children there will be,
For within our love,
We could create the fate again,
Only worse, I fear.
To pillage some innocent's soul and body,
Of conscience and worth.
And right it may seem,
And right it is, I'm sure,
There is remaining in me,
An ache for that laughter,
From our child's lips,
I will never hear.
For the words I love you,
Offered up without tears.
So the ache becomes a cavern,
In time, which will not heal.
Careful will be I,
Of the edges that's all.

I'll say it again,
I hate this disease.
At night when you sleep,
I curse its existence.
Pour my hatred into,
The thought for a cure.
A hope that somewhere,
Some mind is cluttered,
With ideas very grand,
And knowledge to lend,
For all this to end.
I pray with the same fierceness,
With which it attacks,
That this person appears,
Before our worst fears.

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Last updated: Nov. 30, 2010