Some Christmas Cheer
Posted: Fri Apr 30, 2010 7:07 am
Sometimes waiting for Liberation feels like waiting for Christmas morning when you were a kid. The wait is agonizing. So to pass the time I wrote a little poem. Enjoy!
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'Twas the night before Liberation, when all through the shack
Not a neuro was stirring, not Freedman or Lisak;
The scans were all hung by the light boards with care,
In hopes that St. Zamboni soon would be there;
The patients were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of dancing danced in their heads;
And Cheerleader with her PC, and I with my Mac,
Had just settled down for a long Lyon attack,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the keyboard to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a small ambulance with assorted med gear,
With a little old driver, no he wasn’t a phony,
I knew in a moment it must be Zamboni.
More rapid than eagles his cohorts they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Zivadinov! now, Mehta! now, Dake and Sclafani!
On, Simka! on Schelling! on, Godley and Salvi!
To the top of the jugular! to the azygos wall!
Now angioplasty! angioplasty! angioplasty all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the IRB the doctors they flew,
With all of their gear, and St. Zamboni too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the net
The outraged neuros, how they did fret.
“It’s science!” they cried, “You’ll all have to wait!
Besides, all these drugs are so terribly great!”
“Our wonderful theories, they just can’t be wrong,
We’ve invested so much and worked for so long.
It must be placebo, it’s all a big hoax,
So settle on down before somebody croaks!”
Zamboni wasn’t fazed, he’d expected as much,
Diplomatic to a fault, he was just the right touch.
More studies for sure, but have some compassion,
For those without hope, with faces quite ashen.
His eyes -- how they twinkled! His dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the scarf round his chin, he was ready to go.
But he wasn’t alone, no not for a moment,
An army of patients was starting to foment;
With rancor and angst they railed on the forums,
“All we ask is relief from these onerous symptoms.”
“For years we’ve gone along with what you neuros said,
Taken every new drug, some ‘til they were dead;
From a cane to a wheelchair and then to a bed,
Our health and our finances to bankruptcy led.”
“Now listen to us!” rose the internet cry,
“We’d like you to check out this CCSVI.
So do it with haste and stop dragging your feet.
Leave the foot dragging to us ‘cuz we won’t retreat!”
So as spring melts the winter which tarries too much,
Or Christmas with its presents we long to touch.
What seems like forever will one day be here,
And they’ll open our veins without hesitation or fear.
And Zamboni will shout on that day he’s proved right,
“Liberation to all, and to MS, a GOOD NIGHT!”
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
'Twas the night before Liberation, when all through the shack
Not a neuro was stirring, not Freedman or Lisak;
The scans were all hung by the light boards with care,
In hopes that St. Zamboni soon would be there;
The patients were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of dancing danced in their heads;
And Cheerleader with her PC, and I with my Mac,
Had just settled down for a long Lyon attack,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the keyboard to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a small ambulance with assorted med gear,
With a little old driver, no he wasn’t a phony,
I knew in a moment it must be Zamboni.
More rapid than eagles his cohorts they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Zivadinov! now, Mehta! now, Dake and Sclafani!
On, Simka! on Schelling! on, Godley and Salvi!
To the top of the jugular! to the azygos wall!
Now angioplasty! angioplasty! angioplasty all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the IRB the doctors they flew,
With all of their gear, and St. Zamboni too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the net
The outraged neuros, how they did fret.
“It’s science!” they cried, “You’ll all have to wait!
Besides, all these drugs are so terribly great!”
“Our wonderful theories, they just can’t be wrong,
We’ve invested so much and worked for so long.
It must be placebo, it’s all a big hoax,
So settle on down before somebody croaks!”
Zamboni wasn’t fazed, he’d expected as much,
Diplomatic to a fault, he was just the right touch.
More studies for sure, but have some compassion,
For those without hope, with faces quite ashen.
His eyes -- how they twinkled! His dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the scarf round his chin, he was ready to go.
But he wasn’t alone, no not for a moment,
An army of patients was starting to foment;
With rancor and angst they railed on the forums,
“All we ask is relief from these onerous symptoms.”
“For years we’ve gone along with what you neuros said,
Taken every new drug, some ‘til they were dead;
From a cane to a wheelchair and then to a bed,
Our health and our finances to bankruptcy led.”
“Now listen to us!” rose the internet cry,
“We’d like you to check out this CCSVI.
So do it with haste and stop dragging your feet.
Leave the foot dragging to us ‘cuz we won’t retreat!”
So as spring melts the winter which tarries too much,
Or Christmas with its presents we long to touch.
What seems like forever will one day be here,
And they’ll open our veins without hesitation or fear.
And Zamboni will shout on that day he’s proved right,
“Liberation to all, and to MS, a GOOD NIGHT!”
