There’s a place in your head where your cranium sits,
And it craniates daily without throwing fits,
But sometime last December, my cranium crashed,
Making thinking as hard as a week-old Who-Hash,
There came first a wave,
Pounding hard as it came,
Dimming down all the lights,
Blotting out my own name,
And when the knife-pain came after,
(As knife-pains will do),
I was sure as a Cat with Thing One and Thing Two.
“It’s a migraine!” said I, in a voice mighty quiet.
If you don’t know why quiet, I suggest you should try it.
For a migraine’s a headache scaled up just a few,
To the factor of five hundred seventy-two!
Had it happened but once, well that might be just life,
But I soon found that daily I met with that knife,
And my doctor said “Hmm,” with that doctorly eye,
“Why not come place your head in this fine MRI.”
So it hummed and it thrummed as I lay in the drum,
And I waited to see just what answers would come,
(I also did learn in my lengthy long lying,
I could quote Alice’s Restaurant, without trying!)
And my doctor said “Humm,”
And she asked me to come,
To see what transpired in that rumbly drum.
And I saw there … a spot.
Really, almost a dot.
In the midst of my brain,
Where a dot should be not.
Now a spot can be deadly or nothing at all,
Just a mark of the chalk on your cranium wall,
But as we looked it over, we couldn’t help stewing,
Just what is this dot? What the heck is it doing?
Is it a lesion? A mark of MS?
A tumor that does who-knows-what-can-we-guess?
Or simply a scar from when really-young Scott
Hit his head? (I’m told that this happened a lot.)
I get slightly more anxious
With each passing hour,
I just want to know,
(They say knowledge is power)
As though knowledge would make all my problems go “Poof!”
“Enough with these questions now! Give me some proof!”
For we’ve puzzled and puzzed til our puzzlers were sore,
After all, we declare, that’s what puzzlers are for,
It’s hard to admit, faced with puzzling stuff,
We might never know “all” – we might just know “enough.”
And if we find something that puts down the pain,
All the waving and stabbing and pounding the brain,
I’ll be happy for now, though I’d still like to view,
Just what kind of dotting that dot likes to do.
So we’ll poke and we’ll pry,
Seeing if we can spy,
Things that are so important yet lost to the eye.
And if something be seen,
Be it yellow or green,
Or even some new hue, like blue-red-gra-zine,
I’ll tell every fact and I’ll keep you apprised.
(That’s the value of knowing the newspaper guys.)
But if you have a spot or a dot of your own,
And you’re longing to see more than doctors have shown,
Take comfort, though comfort may hide far from view.
It can still come to me, it can still come to you.
With patience and calm, may we all come to see,
Just “enough” of our needs for a small guarantee,
That somehow our problems may each be turned loose,
Now, farewell – for I’m calling a truce of the Seuss!