Damage. Waking With Traumatic Brain Injury. A First Person Account

‘Damage’ is a poem about traumatic brain injury by Stanley Smith. It is a powerful, impactful first person account of waking up and trying to make sense of what has happened.

As I completed yet another clean out I found a copy of this poem in my archives from the early 90’s. I know, I know – I just don’t like throwing good resources away! And I am glad I did not throw this away.

 

Eager to share ‘Damage’ with you, I was lucky enough to find, and meet up with Stanley again. After catching up on 30 years of life in brief, Stanley generously gave me permission to reprint ‘Damage’ here.

Stanley was surprised at my interest in his work of so long ago. While happy to have this poem shared, he is concerned that his creative property be respected and not be copied without permission. (I am happy for you to CONTACT ME with any requests).

 

WARNING – there is some language and description that you may find offensive. I have not censored the poem as I believe it vividly adds to the feelings of waking up with traumatic brain injury.

The format is Stanley’s original and again I did not want to alter this. You will see it here as it was intended.  I have also deliberately let the words speak and have not included images.

 

DAMAGE

By Stanley Smith

Open eyes,

Clean white sheets.

Pale blurs all around.

Inkling.

A Doctor,

A Nurse.

Puzzlement.

Yes.

I know.

I think.

How?

Where?

Clarity.

White Coat (Doctor)

comes over.

“Hello. So you’re

Awake. How

do you feel?

You had us worried.

Never thought

you’d come around but

you did

which is good.”

Confusion.

Try to stand.

Rubber legs.

Fall over.

Carried to a

wheel-chair by

Doctors?

“Ta.”

Rustily unsure voice.

Vague guttural grunts.

Can’t talk.

Shit.

What happened?

Nurse (I think) smiles.

“Do you want some

food?”

“Uh-huh.”

Meal brought out.

Try to eat.

Dribble.

Aim for mouth.

Hit chest.

Finished meal.

Where am I?

Puzzled looks.

Doctor comes over.

“Well. What can be

done for you?”

Point at mouth.

No-one understands.

“You can’t really talk

can you? Can you

write?”

Nod.

Hands over pen and

pad.

Forgot how to write.

Shit.

Shit.

That’s why my fingers

don’t work.

Frustration.

Wheel-chair push.

Nice Orderly.

Physiotherapy.

Physiotherapy.

Physiotherapy.

Physiotherapy.

Speech therapy.

Occupational therapy.

Anger.

Shit.

Unfair.

Physiotherapy.

Physiotherapy.

Speech therapy.

Occupational therapy.

Friends come in.

Happiness.

Parents come in with

television.

Gratitude.

Friend brings in

alphabet board.

Joy.

Communication.

Relief.

Scribble

Where?

“You’re in hospital.”

Why?

“Motorcycle crash.”

Spell out words for

nice nurse.

Was it my motorcycle

crash?

“No.”

Whose?

“We think it was your

friend’s or so

we supposed him to be.”

Where is he?

“He’s dead.”

Shit.

Was I riding?

“No. you were

pillion.”

Shit.

How long have I been

here?

“Six months.”

Why can’t I recall?

“You’ve got brain

damage as you

were unconscious for

four months

and awake for two

months but not

quite here.”

I feel such a mess.

What did I

break?

“You broke your head

and smashed your

leg. It was

replaced with a

titanium rod. You also

nerve –

damaged your arm.”

“My fault?”

“No.”

“My fault?”

Miracle?

Anger.

Fair.

Fair??

So many people.

Hundreds.

Defective and broken.

Grind teeth.

Hit wall.

Pain.

Anger.

“My fault?”

“No.”

Bowels of regret.

Sympathy.

Shame.

Boredom.

Blanket of.

Hit head.

Bricks (against).

Cold and grey.

Camera spying.

Should have died.

“No.”

“My fault?”

“No.”

“My fault?”

“No.”

Feeling faulty.

Feel defective.

Shit.

Dead.

Dead?

Better.

Today?

Tomorrow?

Which day?

Shit.

Physiotherapy.

Speech therapy.

Occupational therapy.

Physiotherapy.

Speech therapy.

Occupational therapy.

New ward.

New bed.

Physiotherapy.

Speech therapy.

Occupational therapy.

Masturbation.

Orgasm.

Frustration.

Fantasy.

Physiotherapy.

Speech therapy.

Occupational therapy.

Loneliness.

Nurse.

Masturbation.

Physiotherapy.

Speech therapy.

Occupational therapy.

Lifts.

New ward.

Physiotherapy.

Cold ice block.

Pain.

Irritation.

Speech therapy

Occupational therapy.

Still can’t walk.

Rage (uncontained).

Frustration (blind).

Ah shit.

Punch wall.

Hurt hand.

Physiotherapy.

Speech therapy.

Occupational therapy.

New ward.

Physiotherapy.

Speech therapy.

 

And Finally

What do you think? Do you agree that is is a vivid descriptive account of waking with brain injury?

Please share comments and I will also pass on your thoughts and comments to Stanley.