Introduction
I enjoy reciting my poems to others and have finally accepted that I have to read them from the printed page, however much I would love to recite them from memory. Funny thing this post-encephalitis life (over twenty years now) —the brain working well enough to write the words but not well enough to remember what’s been written! You’ll be pleased to know I now spend less and less time screaming at the moon and very little wallowing in the once was me. Rob, thank you for sharing this powerful piece with us! You've not only boldly articulated your personal experience, but given a voice to countless others afflicted by the same post-encephalitis challenges. To our Encephalitis411 community members, we invite you to let us know what emotions the poem evokes for you, or send in a poem of your own to [email protected]. Normal for ageGood news beamed the doc no sign of dementia
what? hasn’t he read his own referral? assess cognitive defects from encephalitis oh yes pretty well normal for age sudden memory loss normal for age? I don’t want to be normal for age I’m a chess player and he says wonderful you can still play snakes and ladders the beam shifted well that’s all good isn’t it was there anything more? And that was that you break a leg they give you a crutch you break a brain then you’re on your own if you’re normal for age and the nine year old beats you at chess and you pretend you’ve let him win but you do look normal and if another friend patronises you we’re all forgetting things at our age you’ll wring his scrawny neck within and smile happily without and retire early ‘to pursue other interests’ the job too demanding for normal for age and hear them say not pulling his weight not seeing the leaden lumbered uphill pedalling ever paddling beneath But my intellect is not me my processing speed is not me those one time overproud possessions lost to a marauding virus cerebral kenosis revealing the real me is more a seeing afresh friends family strangers that lorikeet now upside down feeding and grandma’s hundred year old lavender still blooming I laugh with you cry with you and if my jigsaw pieces keep falling out and if I get lost in once familiar streets does it really truly matter? a never expected silver lined gift of freedom thank you I say and shake hands with that old virus or go outside and scream at the silent moon or swallow the sweetened lure and wallow in the lost and once was me
11 Comments
|