{"id":1075,"date":"2020-12-09T13:25:41","date_gmt":"2020-12-09T13:25:41","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/ebling.library.wisc.edu\/corpus-callosum\/?p=1075"},"modified":"2024-09-04T21:12:04","modified_gmt":"2024-09-04T21:12:04","slug":"my-land","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/ebling.library.wisc.edu\/corpus-callosum\/my-land\/","title":{"rendered":"My Land"},"content":{"rendered":"

Ryan McAdams, MD
\nSchool of Medicine and Public Health, Department of Pediatrics, Division of Neonatology
\n2020
\nPoem<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

they say doctors make the worst patients.
\ndo patients make the best doctors?<\/p>\n

horizontal in a head cage, slid
\nin the ceramic catacomb, the MRI magnet
\npreps a warning blast of phaser fire–
\nfive seconds of silence.<\/p>\n

sonic bursts pulsate, vibrate, rock
\nthe skull base, zombie beats bounce
\na dendritic drift, a synaptic trip,
\na galactic whirl, flip, tilt, turn;<\/p>\n

cosmic chirps and voltaic clippers,
\nthe fervent squeak of rubbed glass,
\nrattle sockets, concha, and condyles,
\nshake fossa, ossicles, and foramen,
\nwhile the aphotic hammer pounds
\nstaccato, slams astrocytic, bang bang,
\nhum knock, brain clang, clip clap,<\/p>\n

you okay doc?
\n<\/em>frantic thoughts grow like bindweed,
\ndark vibrations echo as the urge
\nto swallow peaks into a panicked gulp,
\nfrenetic tick tock, the scanner jabber wanes
\nprotons align as gigabytes
\nof pixels rise from magnetic mist,
\nto unveil the neuronal hieroglyphics<\/p>\n

a walnut in a white shell, sliced
\ninto hundreds of grayscale images,
\nviewed on a glowing monitor in a dark room,
\nannotated arrowheads scattered over blood spots<\/p>\n

numerous microhemorrhages,
\nthroughout the subcortical cerebral
\nwhite matter, cerebellum, pons, and medulla
\nsmall foci of enhancement at the left superior
\ntemporal gyrus and left occipital lobe.<\/p>\n

the neuroradiologist dictates her differential
\nmultiple cavernous malformations,
\nhypertensive hemorrhages,
\namyloid angiopathy,
\nsequela of a prior infection
\nwe are not sure<\/em><\/p>\n

which bites when it\u2019s your own brain.<\/p>\n

seated. not leading the discussion
\nbut being discussed. staring at the black,
\ngray, and white slices of me.
\na medical record number. a filed report.<\/p>\n

blood draws, see-saws, check-ins, signed consent
\nlumbar puncture; we are still not sure<\/em>,
\nyou could have seizures and may bleed again
\n<\/em>which can lead to paralysis or death<\/em><\/p>\n

on night call in the neonatal ICU
\ni sit with a mom and dad
\nto talk about their baby girl\u2019s head bleed.
\nas i point at the screen
\ni see my reflection
\na ghost face flickering on blood puddles<\/p>\n

awake at 3 a.m. my head flows volcanic
\ni stare at a screenshot of my MRI,
\nwhite and gray plots and patches
\nfed by black tributaries
\nlike a map of Nunavut
\na place that no one knows about,
\nlike my injured brain, my land,<\/p>\n

my secret Canadian Arctic Archipelago
\nfilled with thick tundra, mountains crags
\nand speckled quilts of color like Eureka,
\nOymyakon, and Alert; bright stories clustered
\nand layered like ice sheets and shelves–
\nbut zero in, so close the snow tickles your nose,
\nthen closer still, covalent bond-close,
\nangstroms away from the polarized light<\/p>\n

reflecting off a single snowflake spike,
\na prism plate illuminating eighty billion neurons
\nfilled with forty seven years of me
\nelectric green molecules that merge and glide harmonic,
\nfree-flowing along one hundred trillion synaptic strings,
\ncrystalized memories that melt fluidic;<\/p>\n

bedtime stories in my mother\u2019s lap, the gentle
\nsafety of my father\u2019s embrace, grandma\u2019s
\nweathered hands rolling cookie dough,
\nmemories bound in elements and ions<\/p>\n

thunder claps in the distance
\nmy son hugs me
\nmy daughter kisses my cheek
\nwill i last the summer?<\/p>\n

tears fall on my midnight drive home.
\nknick-knacks neglected in a basement box,
\nawards, publications, and plaques
\nthe hundred thousand emails in my inbox;
\nthe cold trophies won\u2019t keep my wife warm
\nif i\u2019m dead<\/p>\n

in Nunavut
\nthe Vikings left yarn spun from hare and rats,
\nhidden tally sticks and carved masks
\nburied deep below the permafrost,
\nlike the blood filled caverns in my brain
\nthat leak the clotted whispers of Kubla Khan
\nbeware! beware!
\nbut who understands that they only speak<\/p>\n

Inuktitut north of the tree line?
\nand that my calendar chokes on meetings,
\nwho will hire the candidates? who will deal
\nwith the issues before the ice shelf breaks?
\nmy global thermostat leaks mercury
\nand another baby just died.<\/p>\n

polarized in my nautical nightmare, i\u2019m so tired.
\ni want to hibernate and heal
\nbut the relentless drip of melting ice
\ntorments me as my eyes strain to see the fading
\nglacial hue, melting blue to gray, tracing the slight
\ndepression in the mattress beside my wife
\nwho will help with homework and dinner?
\nwho will help tuck in my kids at night?<\/p>\n

the hollowed mines in Nunavut have left
\nblack pits vacated of gold and iron ore,
\ndormant diamond, zinc, and copper graves
\nscattered over the white terrain like the
\nambiguous holes that riddle my head.
\ni wait, caught in a crevasse wondering
\nif the trickle of blood will turn into
\na massive torrent.\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 but then<\/p>\n

my son smiles and my daughter laughs
\nas we play on the beach, skipping stones,
\nwe run and splash in the salty waves
\nas the sky glows yellow orange red
\nthe sun seems brightest just before it sets.
\nmy grief
\nlike the last bit of nickel in Nanavut
\nsinks out of sight, concealed in the mouth<\/p>\n

of the Meliadine River, washed by
\nthe subarctic waters, currents that cut
\nthe dreck, carve and polish the bones below–
\nbowhead whale ribs and caribou skulls,
\nosseous treasures tapping beats on bedrock
\nas a pray for time and search the nebulous night
\nfor astronomical twilight to shine
\nat the solar culmination<\/p>\n

should i retreat to Nunavut where silence
\nand solitude cajole safety? a bleak surrender,
\na pandemic escape to save a pocketful
\nof snowflakes<\/p>\n

No. I choose the promise of warmth
\nthe hope of recovery
\nover this ephemeral anxiety.
\nthat\u2019s my corona, my land to nurture<\/p>\n

in Nunavut, my land, the dark of december
\nis followed by the light of june<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Ryan McAdams, MD School of Medicine and Public Health, Department of Pediatrics, Division of Neonatology 2020 Poem   they say doctors make the worst patients. do patients make the best doctors? horizontal in a head cage, slid in the ceramic catacomb, the MRI magnet preps a warning blast of phaser fire– five seconds of silence.… <\/p>\n

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