"MILD" TBI ISN'T MILD: a cheesy poem about Dain Bramage
THE HIDDEN INJURY
I wasn’t in a coma; my skull, it didn’t crack
But I can’t figure out how to get my darn life back
No punctures and no blood loss; my bones, they didn’t break
But don’t think for a moment that my recovery’s cake
My TBI has only deserved the rank of Mild
“Only” you might say—ha-ha!—when I feel like a child
I once was Valedictorian, a whiz-kid, and “The Brain”
Now I glitch and stutter and mental tasks are my bane
Yet I’m not “bad enough” to warrant some assistance
When I look for some help I am met with resistance
My injury is brushed off like the most annoying gnat
No program, no therapist, a neurologist? What’s that?
I got a couple months of rehab after the crash
But PPOs don’t like those who siphon all their cash
They booted me as fast as (in)humanly possible
Why I should need their help was now not cognizable
I scramble and I scrimp and I try to keep afloat
But having to be “normal” keeps crushing my li’l boat
I’ve fallen through the cracks and been caught in-betweensies
Because my injuries have been called little teensies
It doesn’t take that much, see, a microscopic rip
One good bash can render a once-brainiac a dip
A car wreck, stroke or face-punch, that sledding crash at seven
Brain surgery, or falling, that horse-kick at eleven
No matter how it happened, results sure are profound
Mine was a drunk driver on the cold freeway, northbound
My head smashed on the door frame, my brain, it got all sloshed
Around inside my skull and my neurons, they got squashed
Now comprehension’s sucky, my verbal skills are vague
I avoid the public like there’s an outbreak of plague
I come off as ill-mannered, or fickle and ditzy
A trigger-hair basket-case emotional fritzy
Can’t add or problem solve and I can’t recall jack shit
When I can’t find my stuff I throw a huge hissy-fit
I growl at all bright lights and commercials and loud sound
When my brain has gone glitchy, I really want to pound
The snot out of anything and swear and foam and kill
My profanity’s a feat of incomparable skill
You would never guess it—what, sweet little me?
I’m all sugar and honey--’til my brain goes “B’deeee”
I thought I prolly should just stick close to my own kind
I went to the support group for those of injured mind
I hoped if anyone could understand that they would
But my experience there was not so feely-good
A bunch of them considered my “mild” hurts too piddly
Then I realized it--they didn’t know diddly
Everyone has their own bed of burning coals to tread
But dammit, so do I. No! It’s not all in my head!
Well, actually it is--it’s referred to as Brain Damage
Both mild and the severe are difficult to manage
There’s not a lot of funding; our plight is not well-known
We’re like unwanted step-kids--we’re rather on our own
Those with severe traumas get the notice and the aid
While tiny bumps heal up, their subjects not waylaid
It’s us here in the middle, an all-too-common class
Undiagnosed, brushed aside—we’re all out here, en mass
Your hermit bro, your weird aunt, your unreliable friend
You never know, they may have Dain Bramage that won’t mend
“The Hidden Injury”—it’s been given an apt name
Don’t see it--don’t WANNA see--and we all take the blame
“Depressed” and “Anti-social,” “Forgetful,” “OCD”
“She’s not the brightest bulb,” “He’s tactless,” and “Lazy”
The monikers are many, but highly off their mark
Many med practitioners, they remain in the dark
There’s not much we can do here, except still scrape along
Until the others get it and help us to belong
Meanwhile, we who suffer can build a good foundation
By imparting our tales in hopes of education
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For y’all who have as much difficulty with the written word as I have in the audio channel — I gotcha covered:
CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE:
--UP NEXT: A LITTLE SOMETHIN' ABOUT PTSD
--OR if you'd like to go back to the beginning of this tale - BLAM:The Night I Was Hit By a Drunk Driver
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