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Poetry

Complex Partial: A Poem About Seizures

March 7, 2020 By Bradley Weber

Complex Partial: A Poem About Seizures

By Bradley James Weber

“There it is again,” he says

The aura

The slight dizziness and the déjà vu

Another memory of things that never happened

“Sometimes,” he says,

“I wonder why I’m on the floor.”

Why his face hurts

Why he can’t breathe through his nose

And where all the blood came from . . . .

Or once

How his car got on the wrong side of the street

Up the grass outside the Jiffy Lube

And who all the people were

Concerned and amazed

That he rolled through the intersection

Without killing anyone

“Are you OK?” they ask

“You want us to call somebody?”

All good questions

None with answers and no time to find them

Because his window of functionality

Is slamming itself closed.

“When I snap out of it,” he says,

I’ve got a few minutes—

maybe five.”

Until the headache

The nausea

And confusion hit

Five minutes

Until the whirling vertigo

Until he can’t drive

Or stand

Or think straight about anything

Except throwing up

Then going to sleep

In a very quiet, very dark room

“It never goes away,” he says

The dread of another seizure

The paranoia, the depression and rage

In spite of the meds

Or maybe because of them

Side effects may include:

Hostility, nervousness,

Personality disorders,

Irritability

Delusions

Agitation, apathy

Mood swings, aggression

Suicidal thoughts.

“Which is fine,” he says,

“But what if you’ve got all that

before taking medication?”

Paranoia, anxiety

Depression, rage

All part of the program

When you’re born with a brain full of bad wiring

“So what’s that leave you?” he says

Other than jokes

Some from his parents

About how they’d been right all along

“Something’s wrong with that boy.

We’ve said it for years.’”

The nighttime episodes

His face and chest banging

And banging and banging and banging

Into the mattress

Seizures undiagnosed

“’Been doing that since he was a baby. Just one of those things.’”

He considers my whiskey

Then frowns

“Nah,” he says, “not worth it.”

His brain and the booze

They don’t get along anymore

Maybe not ever

“I’ll tell you what, though;

I miss it like hell.”

Then it’s time for the trash to haul itself out

I pat down my pockets

For lighter and smokes

While my brain-damaged pal

Shoves me carward

Sober and ready

To drive me back home

Filed Under: Poetry, Stories Tagged With: complex partial, poetry, seizures

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