Autonomic dysreflexia is its name.
Not to know it, is no blame.
Residing between life and hell.
To know it, one must feel its spell.
Somewhere between body and brain,
Lies a place where the two are twain.
When this tenuous tie is lost,
Communication is the cost.
When the body is in pain,
It sends a signal to the brain.
So quick the brain is to learn,
Returns the help that is yearned.
But when the brain can't figure out,
What the message is all about.
It sends out a general alarm,
As though it's body's bought the farm.
Starts with a slight feeling of unease,
Then grows into a massive seize.
A crescendo of heat and vibration,
That runs the body like automation.
Trapped inside this hideous place,
There's no going easy--going with grace.
Feel death coming? It's right on board.
Feel it coming, without a word.
Until it overwhelms--brain browns out.
Through the buzz, scream and shout.
Grim as the Reaper down under,
But no help can one render.
Relax, and let it slither off,
Like used snakeskin slough.
Shudder to think of it coming again.
… Next time, will it do me in?
Copyright 2002 © Ronald W. Hull
Read War's End, the Novel