"Mild" TBI Isn't Mild
A cheesy poem about Dain Bramage (Traumatic Brain Injury)
Originally written in 2003, when my damaged left brain had rerouted a bunch of tasks through the right side. Although I don’t really consider myself a poet, the skull-shenanigans became allllll enamored of communicating through rhyme and rhythm. Still do. Even sometimes when I don’t want them to. Now we just go with it.
At the time of writing this poem, I’d only had one brain trauma. I’ve had 6 now, and my injuries are classified as Moderate, not Mild. Then again, under many of the criteria cited today, I would have been classified as Moderate back then, too. But in 2000, if your skull wasn’t cracked open and if you didn’t lose consciousness for more than 30 minutes (mine was only about 15 minutes), you got labeled with “only” a concussion, or maybe with a “mild” traumatic brain injury if symptoms lasted more than 6 months.
If it’s a more enjoyable ride, you can snigger, snort, and throw popcorn as I read this to you at the bottom. 👇
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 TBIs have 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 st-stutter and mental tasks are my bane
Now I glitch and st-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 sound 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 the 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’dee-b’dee-b’dee”
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
For y’all who have as much difficulty with the written word as I have in the audio channel, or for y’all who can’t make sense of my jacked up meter — I gotcha covered:
LIES! ALL LIES!!! Medium despised my writing. This is the only post I ever wrote that they didn’t hurl down into the hidden dregs of spammers, haters, and people who don’t know how to punctuate or grammar correct. 🤪
I also had to close down my old HarteBeast website because disabled girls who have to choose between medical care and utility bills don’t get to have such luxuries as websites big enough to host a blog as mongo-sized as mine used to be.
So now I’m a Substack Grrrl. Woooot!
© 2020 Hartebeast
How did I get my first of four six brain traumas? This happy-crappy clown ride starts here:
BLAM.
If only I wasn’t such a social butterfly, a hostess-with-the-mostess, a proud, doting teacher—I would have made it to the back room and had my costumes packed before ten o’clock after our holiday dance recital. If only I had let someone else drive a friend home after her truck broke down, I would have made it to Walmart twenty minutes earlier. If I had just...
Once upon a time when I had my oooooold blog (no, not Ye Olde One that we’re migrating here but the even oooooolder, glitter-washed, censored one), the first place I would have sent you to was to the Brain Injury Association of America but… well…since that time I’ve written to them in desperation: THRICE. Each time, they’ve ignored my messages or the website forms I’ve filled out BUT! I know they received my communiques. Yes, indeedy. Know how I know this? Because each time, they put me back onto their mailing list to then request money from ME. The Dain Bramaged One fallen through the cracks and begging them for help. Yeah. Nice.
Well, fuck it, duckit. Maybe you’ll have better luck with BIAA than I did. I hear they’re supposed to be awesome with this kind of stuff.
Each state also tends to have its own TBI associations. If you hunt by search engine for “Traumatic Brain Injury MY STATE” that should get you started. Some states are better than others. Many are finally getting a clue, after way too long (and way too many of our Veterans coming home all jacked up, and then—whooooah, no way. Our impact sports heroes too? Huh. Go figure. And you know, a few too many of we normal schmucks occasionally have issues when our heads get bonked or shaken-and-stirred).
Each state also has a Disability Rights organization. If you’ve been booted down into the Underworld along with us as a TBI long-hauler, and especially if you are blessed-and-cursed to be granted government assistance for this issue, you will need to know that.
Seriously.
You will.
If you’re with me in Arkansas, you’ll want to know UAMS Brain & Spine. And you’ll want to know Disability Rights of Arkansas.
“OMG I toooootally do that and I don’t have a TBI. Psssssh, there’s nothing wrong with you that’s not wrong with everybody else (so stop whining and trying to get attention).”
SOOOOO unhelpful. Actually, no, it’s damaging. Because TBI symptoms are human brain symptoms. Humans get them. Other organisms with brains get some of them, too. People with TBI and other neurological conditions can simply experience them to a greater degree, more often, and it takes less stimuli to produce these symptoms. The symptoms also hit with a way bigger fist. Ka-BLAM.
That’s why TBI is a disability but, you know…having a human brain is not.Spoon Theory. If you ever encounter someone with a disability or chronic health condition while you’re breathing and blinking, or if you have one yourself, this is a crucial thing to know.
How I got TBI #1: Mothers Against Drunk Driving
How I got TBI #2 and the year of chronic seizures it gave me: National Domestic Violence Hotline
And TBI #3: U Drive. U Text. U Pay. Oh wait. Actually *I* pay. Thanx.
This has been a Public Service Announcement from your friendly neighborhood neurodivergent. (Careful. She bites.)
(Not literally.)
(Okay, that’s not true. But you have to know me really intimately and ask really, really nicely for that. RAWR.)
🤘 All I got today. 🤘
🎤☄️💥
This is a really well-written poem - I like your altered phrases and changed words it was very clever.
And the topic of this poem is also very important and one, as you suggest, most are not aware of.
You’re doing a good thing raising awareness on this issue.