Trauma cluster I

By Melanie Marttila

​First, develop tonsillitis so bad
earaches leave you screaming, so bad
antibiotic syrups stain your teeth orange, so bad
tonsillectomy is the only option.
 
Then, on your first night home,
wake choking on your own blood,
rush back to hospital.
No gentle goodbye, no reassurance,
only rough hands and sharp things.
Kick and scream. Stab nurse with needle
intended for your arm.
Parents hold you down, then leave.
 
In the night-dark ward, you
cry for MommyMommyMommy, and the
girl in the next bed prays for baby Jesus to
take you away.
 
Grampa dies of a heart attack
shovelling snow off carport roof.
Too young to be told anything but
“He’s with Rudolph.” The Santa Show
said Rudolph was sick and we all had to
wish him well in time for Christmas.
 
Dad sets you to play in the snow while he
climbs ladder to finish the job Grampa started.
When he falls, you think he’s funny. Playing
games. It takes time for him to convince you
otherwise, send you—who have never been anywhere
alone—on a quest to the next-door neighbour.
You walk slowly, tentatively, Dad urging you on.
One step. The next. When the door opens to your
third mittened knock, you say, “Daddy needs help.”
 
You don’t remember what happens after that.

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Trauma cluster II

By Melanie Marttila

It begins with mystery abdominal
pain on way home from summer
astronomy weekend.
It recedes and returns—world’s slowest
tide. Doctor mystified. Bloodwork, imaging,
tests for every organ find nothing. Nothing
conclusive.
 
Begin to fall asleep in last period biology,
become hunchback, too
stubborn to say “can’t,” or
“help.”
 
In five months, admitted to
hospital. Emergency exploratory
surgery reveals inverted bowel, misplaced
appendix inflamed, on cusp of rupture, and
abscess the size of softball, or 
grapefruit, depending on iteration of
telling.
 
Surgeon eschews colostomy (gratitude), drains
abscess (poison persistently oozes), administers heroic
antibiotics and analgesics. Two weeks on
intravenous. Three months with paracentesis*.
Lifetime with scar, puckered
remembrance.
 
In recovery, gaslighting boyfriend makes your near
death all about him—dump his ass but in two
months end up in another
relationship with someone who needs to
save you.
 
Second surgery combines appendectomy and diagnostic for
malignant hyperthermia**. Results indicate highest level of
reactivity. Internist says no caffeine, alcohol, muscle relaxants,
antihistamines. She doesn’t understand why you
cry.
 
Barely recovered when Grandma flips car. She won’t
wake up. Attempt to insert feeding tube reveals
cancer—so much the incision’s closed. All that’s left is
death.
 
In another month, you leave for university, but funeral and
estate and Grandma kept more secrets than her cancer.
Parents move into Grandma’s, rent their—your— 
home.
 
No place for you. Friends scattered. Is it any
wonder you break down for “no
reason.”


* Paracentesis is a length of surgical tubing inserted into the infected area and sewn into the incision to allow pus to drain. Slowly retracted as infection clears and wound packed with sterile gauze strips soaked in saline until incision fully closes.

**Malignant hyperthermia is a dominantly inherited genetic disorder of skeletal muscle that predisposes susceptible individuals to a life-threatening adverse reaction upon exposure to potent volatile anesthetics and the skeletal muscle relaxant succinylcholine.

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Trauma cluster III

By Melanie Marttila

​Content warning: Suicidal ideation

​First ideation is difficult to pinpoint. Was it
left to my own devices on twelfth-floor balcony,
dropping objects over the rail to
watch them fall? I could not follow. Was it
another balcony at a university party, staring over
edge, imagining how little it would take to
plunge? Was it later, married, chopping
vegetables, seeing—so clearly—blade
penetrating flesh? Finger or abdomen,
much the same.
 
Still bear scar of childhood knife wound,
inadvertent, nearly fainted, refused to
disclose found paring knife, failure to whittle,
slip. Another scar, psychic, Dad sitting,
knife aimed at gut; couldn’t drive it home;
couldn’t put it down. Mom found him, called
ambulance. 24-hour hold became three-month
commitment, diagnosis of bi-polar, disability pension.
Didn’t know until later, away in Southampton, NY,
filming dressage, show jumping, summer adventure.
In my blood, my genes, that urge, that
predisposition.
 
Seek therapy for first time in early thirties,
prescribed Paxil, which never suits. New job
compounds emotional wounds, but salary,
benefits, and pension chain me. Golden
handcuffs exist; wear them still. Adulting
overwhelms; seek solace where I can. Find
tools, resources, take baby steps. Therapy ends.
Withdrawal is worse than depression. Learn to
live with it, an unwanted other self.
 
Hit by car. No broken bones, but wound does not
heal for ten months, another year before fleshy hole
seals shut, fills in. Body accommodates damage,
keeps the score. Another freakish scar to go with
others, my collection, my story, my constellation,
my orrery.

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​Melanie Marttila (she/her) is an #ActuallyAutistic author of poetry and speculative tales of hope in the face of adversity, who is a settler in Sudbury ('N'Swakamok), Ontario. Her most recent poetry was published in Polar Starlight, her most recent short fiction in Pulp Literature, and her debut poetry collection, The Art of Floating, was published in 2024 by Latitude 46.