Winter Kills

Today is the one-year anniversary of the MRI that diagnosed my syringomyelia.

It was supposed to be a routine checkup after seizures. Sort of. My neurologist got freaked out by my gait, my abnormal smooth pursuit eye movements, my asymmetrical reflexes. She ordered a c-spine. We never did that before — only brain.

The techs blasted Prince into my headphones. In every MRI before — and I have had a lot of MRIs — I dozed off, hypnotized by the clang clang clang and bang bang bang. I slid into the tube expecting a nap. Instead, I panicked. Sometime during the Purple Rain guitar solo, I tried to lift my head. My neck burned like a beheading with a blade of fire. I am paralyzed, I thought. I can’t move my neck. I can’t move my neck. I can’t move my neck.

I kicked my feet. Screamed: GET ME OUT OF HERE. GET ME OUT OF HERE.

I knew. My spinal cord knew. All this time, it had been transmitting coded messages in the strange movements of my eyes, like a political prisoner paraded out on TV. Classified intelligence about a biological weapon implanted in my backbone. My own body turned traitor. This is not a democracy anymore. You do not get to choose. You can’t move your neck. You can’t move your neck.

“Winter Kills” is the soundtrack to the first time I saw the first syrinx in my spinal cord.

Alone, at home, MRI disc popped into my MacBook:

C-Spine MRI scan showing a silvery hole in my spinal cord at C5-T1.

I knew what that hole in my spinal cord was. If you have Chiari like I do, you know.

On TV: The Americans. “Winter Kills” in the background as KGB agent Elizabeth Jennings rifles through her friend Young Hee’s house for the access code to a biological weapon.

“The Day After” episode, when the Jennings family watches a made-for-TV movie about nuclear apocalypse, and they know: they are living, breathing weapons of mass destruction. They are quickening the End of the World.

“I was thinking about not telling the Center about this,” their contact in the bioweapons lab says. “I’d like to make the right decision… Nobody needs this. I don’t trust us with it.”

still from “The Day After” with an orange mushroom cloud blooming on the horizon and cars abandoned on a highway

The Day After was a real movie. I watched it as a kid. I lived in terror of nuclear bombs because, as we were told in school, Cedar Rapids was a prime target:

1982 newspaper clipping with a map of Cedar Rapids & a nuclear destruction zone drawn on it in concentric circles from Rockwell Collins

Cedar Rapids, Iowa: land of Rockwell Collins, makers of military aircraft communications and space shuttle parts; Duane Arnold nuclear plant; the bread basket of the nation. The Russians are going to nuke us. The Russians are going to nuke us. The Russians are going to nuke us. Nuclear winter is coming. They drilled it into our heads. The first Wednesday of every month: civil defense sirens. Take cover. 

Same as the tornado siren. I started to confuse tornadoes with nukes. Tornado shelters for bomb shelters. Tornado drills at school with duck and cover.

Later, I thought it was all a lie, but it wasn’t. On maps of a 500-warhead scenario: a triangle marking my childhood industrial wasteland in a flyover state nobody cares exists.

FEMA map of nuclear targets in a 500-warhead scenario and 2,000-warhead scenario

The Day After aired November 20, 1983: one month before my brother Jimmy died. I have always associated nuclear bombs with brother death. And there I was in 2016, in the middle of a resurrection spell to bring my other brother Greg back to life, and I made myself a spine like his:

image from Greg’s VA records indicating severe spinal injury at the same location as my first syrinx He had fusion from C5-6-7 and T1
1984 Doomsday Clock 3 minutes to midnight:
U.S.-Soviet relations reach their iciest point in decades. Dialogue between the two superpowers virtually stops. “Every channel of communications has been constricted or shut down; every form of contact has been attenuated or cut off. And arms control negotiations have been reduced to a species of propaganda.”

Resurrection has consequences.

Tear at me, searching for weaker seams.
I’ll tear at you, searching for weaker seams.

Resurrection and apocalypse. Resurrection requires apocalypse. Resurrection is apocalypse.

2017 Doomsday Clock is at 2 1/2 minutes to midnight:
For the last two years, the minute hand of the Doomsday Clock stayed set at three minutes before the hour, the closest it had been to midnight since the early 1980s. In its two most recent annual announcements on the Clock, the Science and Security Board warned: “The probability of global catastrophe is very high, and the actions needed to reduce the risks of disaster must be taken very soon.”

Nuclear winter is coming.

I am caught in a time loop: Comey canned, the president laughing in the Oval Office with the Russians who conspired to tear at us, searching for weaker seams, hacking intel about our election, turning our own democratic bodies against us.

tick tick tick