Sometimes the bravest thing I can do is to walk down the stairs.
You probably don’t realise that,
as you charge down behind me,
only to be slowed by this healthy-looking woman hugging the handrail as if her life depends on it.
“What was with her?” you might ask
as I reach the ground and hit my stride, taking off across the safe flat land.
You can’t see inside me
You don’t know what’s in my head
Six years ago it happened
A momentary lapse
A sudden change of life
Six years ago
I slipped on the stairs.
I bruised my butt
And I bruised my brain.
They call it post-concussion syndrome
Fancy words for what happens when your brain bounces inside your skull
Officially, I have fully recovered.
I am healthy and normal
All my readings are fine
(as if I were ‘normal’ before)
When they assess your brain after a concussion there is no benchmark to who you were before… that was never tested. You’re ‘normal’ and ‘healthy’ if you fit the medically proven range…
(it doesn’t matter who you were before
you’ll never be that person again anyway)
Six years have passed, and I have apparently healed.
I function well.
You might never guess I’ve been severely concussed
(some scars can’t be seen)
don’t ask me to ceilidh dance, or lie down flat on the floor, or spin around a lot
don’t ask me to rush down the stairs.