A Raymond Carver poem

For this next post I’ll be commenting on a poem by one of my favorite writers, Raymond Carver. Carver is known more for his short stories, but he also wrote a lot of poetry, especially toward the end of his short life. (He died at the age of 49 due to lung cancer, which was brought on due to his chain smoking.) Below is a poem by him entitled, “What the Doctor Said.” It recounts a moment when the speaker (one can infer it’s Carver himself) learns cancer is spreading in his lungs and it is most likely terminal.


“What The Doctor Said”


He said it doesn't look good
he said it looks bad in fact real bad
he said I counted thirty-two of them on one lung before
I quit counting them
I said I'm glad I wouldn't want to know
about any more being there than that
he said are you a religious man do you kneel down
in forest groves and let yourself ask for help
when you come to a waterfall
mist blowing against your face and arms
do you stop and ask for understanding at those moments
I said not yet but I intend to start today
he said I'm real sorry he said
I wish I had some other kind of news to give you
I said Amen and he said something else
I didn't catch and not knowing what else to do
and not wanting him to have to repeat it
and me to have to fully digest it
I just looked at him
for a minute and he looked back it was then
I jumped up and shook hands with this man who'd just given me
something no one else on earth had ever given me
I may have even thanked him habit being so strong

- Raymond Carver


This poem captures well the awkwardness of having to face our mortality. As one who has been to many doctors, I can relate to the strange politeness between the doctor and the speaker (Carver). When getting bad news from a relative or a friend, we allow ourselves to emote, and maybe some do in front of their doctors. For myself, similar to Carver, I’ll usually be dazed at first, then polite, and simply thank them before leaving. What’s interesting to note is that neither the speaker nor the doctor want to mention the word death, even though that’s what’s at issue. In our culture of modern medicine many people talk about knowing they will die, but most people avoid thinking, talking, confronting, dealing with the issue in any substantive way. Thus the awkwardness – the rambling, evasive, non-punctuated – the hurried, confused tone of this piece. The piece does not even end with a period, implying a hopeful never-ending continuation, even though that can’t happen to any one of us. Still the poem, to me, is comforting. It deals with illness and death with realism, gentleness, humanity, consolation, and humor; and these qualities can go far toward making life, illness, even death, more acceptable.