When an old lady died in the geriatric ward of a small hospital near Dundee, Scotland, it was believed that she had nothing left of any value. Later, when the nurses were going through her meager possessions, they found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital. One nurse took her copy to Ireland. The old lady's sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas edition of the News Magazine of the North Ireland Association for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on her simple, but eloquent, poem. And this little old Scottish lady, with nothing left to give to the >world, is now the author of this "anonymous" poem winging across the Internet: >Crabby Old Woman. What do you see, nurses?

What do you see?

What are you thinking

When you're looking at me?

A crabby old woman,

Not very wise,

With faraway eyes? 

Who dribbles her food

And makes no reply

When you say in a loud voice,

"I do wish you'd try!"

Who seems not to notice

The things that you do,

And forever is losing

A stocking or shoe? 

Who, resisting or not,

Lets you do as you will,

With bathing and feeding,

The long day to fill? 

Is that what you're thinking?

Is that what you see?

Then open your eyes, nurse,

You're not looking at me.

I'll tell you who I am

As I sit here so still,

As I do at your bidding,

As I eat at your will. 

I'm a small child of ten

With a father and mother,

Brothers and sisters,

Who love one another. 

A young girl of sixteen

With wings on her feet

Dreaming that soon now

A lover she'll meet.

A bride soon at twenty,

My heart gives a leap,

Remembering the vows

That I promised to keep

At twenty-five now,

I have young of my own,

Who need me to guide

And a secure happy home.

A woman of thirty,

My young now grown fast,

Bound to each other

With ties that should last.

At forty, my young sons

Have grown and are gone,

But my man's beside me

To see I don't mourn. 

At fifty once more,

Babies play round my knee,

Again we know children,

My loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me,

My husband is dead,

I look at the future,

I shudder with dread.

For my young are all rearing

Young of their own,

And I think of the years

And the love that I've known.

I'm now an old woman

And nature is cruel;

'Tis jest to make old age

Look like a fool.

The body, it crumbles,

Grace and vigor depart,

There is now a stone

Where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass

A young girl still dwells,

And now and again,

My battered heart swells.

I remember the joys,

I remember the pain,

And I'm loving and living

Life over again.

I think of the years

All too few, gone too fast,

And accept the stark fact

That nothing can last. 

So open your eyes, people,

Open and see,

Not a crabby old woman;

Look closer . . . see ME!!   By: Phyilis McCormack

A Nurse's reply
"To the 'Crabby Old Woman"
What do we see, you ask, what do we see? Yes, we are thinking when looking at thee! We may seem to be hard when we hurry and fuss, But there's many of you, and too few of us. We would like far more time to sit by you and talk, To bath you and feed you and help you to walk. To hear of your lives and the things you have done; Your childhood, your husband, your daughter, your son. But time is against us, there's too much to do -Patients too many, and nurses too few. We grieve when we see you so sad and alone, With nobody near you, no friends of your own. We feel all your pain, and know of your fear That nobody cares now your end is so near. But nurses are people with feelings as well, And when we're together you'll often hear tell Of the dearest old Gran in the very end bed, And the lovely old Dad, and the things that he said, We speak with compassion and love, and feel sad When we think of your lives and the joy that you've had, When the time has arrived for you to depart, You leave us behind with an ache in our heart. When you sleep the long sleep, no more worry or care, There are other old people, and we must be there. So please understand if we hurry and fuss -There are many of you, And so few of us.  By: Phyilis McCormack

Remember this poem when you next meet an old person who you might brush aside without looking at the young soul within...........we will all, one day, be there, too!