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
