Phineas P. Gage (1823–1860) was an American railroad
construction worker remembered for his improbable
survival of an accident in which a large iron rod was
driven completely through his head.
Hey Phineas,
Me again. You don’t remember me, but I remember you.
You’re the star of Psych 101 slides, the DSM-5, your demise
repeated endlessly in lecture halls. Modern Lazarus, miracle
of psychiatrist and pop scientist. I know you were
opening your mouth to speak, when—
pierced
through the head. Six kilograms of iron
shattered your upper jaw, and
passed through of your left eye, and
emerged out the top of the head,
metal through flesh.
I saw the flash of light when your frontal lobe was obliterated.
I know of the gunpowder, its metallic taste. Truly,
I’ve read all about it. Call me your biggest fan.
You regurgitated blood for two days and
laid comatose for twelve. Your hands turned ice-cold but
your cheeks flushed feverish, I’ve seen you catatonic. I’ve seen where
the iron rod entered your skull, tonic-clonic seizure,
the caverns where your myopic eyes should have been.
I know that logically, there’s no way you can
hear me, but I have to ask,
did it hurt?
And what was it like?
I’m not talking about the accident, I’m talking about afterwards—
when you survived.
You were different afterwards, weren’t you? Your friends
called you an animal, said “no longer Gage”
as the convulsions set in.
I only ask because my brain takes from me too, a seizure,
it trapped me in bed while I gasped for air, manic,
only gave back the metal-cold knife
grasping for the inside of my arm.
I panicked. I ran for it. Running shoes on,
sprinted from my childhood home at 4am.
Moonlight. No clouds. Warm summer air
filled my lungs and tumbled its way out.
I buried the knife at the end of the road.
But you’re different. You asked for it back. I saw it. I saw the note
secretly scribbled to the doctors, asking them to
return your iron rod after its excision from your skull.
Which is what I can’t imagine. Because I’m trying to
escape the DSM-5, aren’t you? I’m trying to get this iron rod
out of my eye without taking everything with it;
split second, one wrong move, I’m “no longer Gage,”
or just as much Gage as you are.
How many pieces were you split into that day?
How many more do you think I can take?
And did it hurt?
| previous | return | next |
|---|