Lost in Translation

My girlfriend of more than two years, Anna, is Russian, and though she speaks English with nearly native precision, it is still her second language. 

This morning over breakfast, she made an astute observation.  To paraphrase our conversation, beginning with her, “When we began dating, speaking English was outside of my emotions - I could say the words and say what I was feeling, but I couldn’t feel the words as I was saying them.  I’m past that now, but it took a long time for me to really feel the words I was saying to you as we spoke.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Well, say I love you in Russian.” (I’m currently at the early stages of learning the language).

“Я тебе люблю.”

“Do you see what I mean, it’s all in your head.  You can’t feel the meaning behind the words.”

The example struck a chord in me - though she has a strong  understanding of the grammatical rules and the vocabulary, when we began dating, communicating her thoughts was still an intellectual exercise - a language game.

When I spoke “Я тебе люблю,” I was translating my English thoughts to Russian, not actually using Russian to express myself.

The line destruction between translation to a language and expression in a language may seems insignificant at first, yet Anna pointed out that it is crossing this line that holds the totality of honest communication.  When words are merely translated without being felt, a hollowness exists in the utterances, a non-verbalized aspect of the communication that is missing.

This is related to why I began this blog.  In brain injury, and I believe this is true with all traumatic incidents, it is easy to become lost in the academics of the experience - the intimate details and personal particularities are translated to numbers and likely symptoms or outcomes.  The interpersonal honesty is lost as loved ones and professionals attempt to understand the incident in a larger context.  The experience is translated to a language that can be better understood by caregivers and physicians, but the fullness of the experience may be lost.

Do not read this as a criticism of the process - this is necessary for caregivers to be able to work in a productive manner - but I also believe insights come from the personal stories of survivors.  Sharing an experience helps to dismantle the “language barrier" that is erected when the story is translated to the necessary medical terminology.  Recovery from trauma is never easy to fully understand, and though generalities are necessary to form a efficient and effective treatment plan, the intricacies of an experience should not be forgotten by the survivor or the caregivers.


The stories and thoughts presented in the articles on this blog are personal, but my hope is they spark your memories.  Please share your stories as a survivor or a caregiver to recognize the individuality of an experience.

Another TBI Blog

Several years ago I had the honor of having my piece "Who Am I, Again?" recognized by attorney and brain injury activist Gordon Johnson.  He then took it upon himself to sponsor a filming of a production of the story as his kickoff project for his TBI Voices project which features the stories of brain injury survivors.

Recently, Attorney Johnson has begun a blog for the Chicago Brain Injury group that features good articles about recovery, including some commentary about scenes from my story.  I encourage you to take a few moments and look at both sites - both are filled with good thoughts and observations about recovery.

Enjoy.

Failed Joke

A quick memory and then some thoughts:

My father’s co-worker Michael - also my best friend’s father - and his family are visiting in the living room.  It’s soon after I’ve returned from Magee Hospital and I’m standing in the doorway to the stairs that lead up to my room.  Shirtless, but unashamed, I giggle to those assembled, “Michael, I’m modeling myself after you - I have a gut now, see!”  My belly juts forward, seeking applause, - all I can get from the audience is a forced, politely awkward laugh.


At the moment, the joke seemed appropriate - I was attempting to imitate Michael’s tongue and cheek, self-depreciating humor.  My own reaction to the failed joke was brief - mildly recognizing the failure, perhaps a slight adjustment to future jesting jabs, moving on.  No major repercussions or revelations - in truth, the reason this memory remains so vivid alludes me.

Yet the memory is there, so this documents it and now I will provide reflections. 

The exact thoughts Michael had are unknown to me, and since then Michael has sadly passed on - but contemplating this a decade and a half later, I see it as demonstrating the uncertainty that exists for those a survivor returns to.  Michael, and everyone in his family, has been a close family friend ever since our lives came together, and as I recovered their search for an understanding of my condition while providing emotional and practical assistance was a strong part of the base from which I bloomed again - yet even with this strong support and understanding, the proper reaction to my behaviors seemed unclear.  At first glance, my snide comment, though not intended as such, was rude, and as a young adult I should have known better than to say such crass comments - yet I was clearly trying to model my actions after his - making fun of my own gut.  Michael may have questioned if he should criticize me for what he demonstrates, though he presents jibes in a more tactful manner.  Should my parents intervene and gently reprimand me in front of family friends for an uncouth comment?  Should my ignorance in the situation be presented to so I can learn from my mistakes? 

Questions such as these can arise with any awkward situation, but I believe the element of brain injury adds another confusing factor to the equation - my parents may have wondered, “Does Lethan need to be retaught and drilled on the norms of social acceptability after his injury or will he learn this independently as his brain continues to heal?  If Lethan’s brain is allowed to heal independently, is there a time when this social unawareness must be corrected?  What is this time?”

Whether any of these questions passed through anyone’s mind, I have no idea, and I highly doubt they rose with such clarity in the moment, but it seems clear from my research that confusion such as this is not uncommon.  People don’t know how to respond to a survivor relearning the “rules of society”, and while education can help to provide an understanding and perhaps a patience, i don’t think it can ever become easy.


I don’t have a clean way to complete this entry - my hope was to end on with powerful insight that makes the reader go “Ahhhhh….”, but currently, I’ve got nothing.  I suppose that’s how a discussion about little understood traumatic incidents often needs happen - a recitation of the remembered facts of an event, a reflection upon the questions it raises, and moving on.  To assume there are always answers is to deny the chaotic variances of reality. 

Or maybe you know more about the topic than I do.  The reaction of a support group to a survivor recovering from a trauma is something I’m highly interested in - I would love to hear thoughts and comments, so please share this and leave the comments below.

Leaving the Ghetto with a Smile

As readers of this blog may have reasoned, I can complain about my situation in life.  More than that, I can complain with panache. I recognize my skills with logic and locution allow me to produce reasoned, eloquent, passionate diatribes wailing about my position in the world - soliloquies that produce no real results, but damn-it if they don’t sound like they should.  I’m good at complaining.  What’s more, my complaints have been in high form, as of late, because of the dissatisfaction with my current job - but recently I had a privilege that helped to put things into perspective.

It was a Saturday, so I went for a walk.  I’m currently living in the small city of Pohang, Korea and there is an abandoned railroad track near my apartment, so I decided to follow it to where it ends - or starts, depending on your perspective.  The tracks run along the edge of town, and to the right I could see the skyline of high-rise, high-tech apartments that South Korea likes to showboat as an image of gaining a strong international presence - the image of a rising economic and cultural power.  This is an image that, while beautiful and at times absolutely stunning, I’ve become used to in my years in Korea.  What is easy to forget, and what city planners seem to hide, is the image that was to the left side of the tracks - for lack of a better word, it was…a ghetto.  A ramshackle of houses, some well kept while others crumbling, peppered with gardens between the residences and sometimes on the roof, many of which had an older man or woman digging and gathering plants and roots.  These were not the luxury conditions Korea displays to the media, yet each time I saw an area such as this, people were smiling.  It looked to be a hard life, a life ripe with trials and tribulations that I am privileged enough to not be used to and I would not want.  The life in these communities is likely harder than anything the heavy workload I’m struggling with now could give me, but people still smiled.  From my perspective, the road ahead of them seemed taxing, but these travelers of life seemed ready to make the best of the journey.

I relate this to recovery from brain injury by recognizing the struggle.  There is struggle in the mere act of being human - everyone has a different set of trials, and anyone can focus on the hardships of a position.  The goal is not to deny this struggle or to accept the struggle as inevitable.  Nor do I think one should simply enjoy the struggle - struggles suck.  They are painful and can bring a sense of being unable to move beyond a limiting moment in life, yet it is this desire to move on that must be embraced - one can appreciate the enlightenment gained in the quest to move beyond any stagnating struggle.  Don’t grant a false appreciation to hard times, but gain what you can as the opportunities present themselves.  To simplify the idea - make the best of it.



In the piece “Who Am I, Again?”, the TBI survivor, Larry, has a revelation near the end of the story.  To quote him, “If I could have any wish at all…I wouldn’t wish that my accident didn’t happen.  That’s not to say I’m glad my accident happened, or I think it should happen to anyone.  I mean, it sucked, like…a lot…It’s just…well…I’ve met a lot of really great people because of my accident, been a lot of places, seen things I wouldn’t have…It’s just, I guess my accident has kinda made me who I am today…and I like that.”

Larry has reached what might be considered a sort of enlightenment - he doesn’t think what happened was good, but he recognizes it has allowed him to be who he is today.  When I interviewed the survivor who inspired the character of Larry, and this line is a direct quote from one of my interviews with him, I don’t remember him feeling satisfaction with his life - I don’t remember him displaying any complacency toward his situation - but what I do remember is an acceptance of what is and a desire to gain all he can from the healing processes  Due to his injury and circumstance, he has been thrown into a ghetto of a life situation - maybe not economically struggling, but highly limited in seeking any opportunities to improve his situation - yet he chooses to approach this limitation with good grace.  He strives to move on from where he is, but leave it with a smile.

Larry displays a deep peace in his attitude, a wisdom to approaching any situation - don’t accept a given situation, always seek self improvement, and take what you can from where you are.  You have every right to complain, and you can rest assured that I will likely complain again, but while you are in a situation, try to learn from the process of moving forward.


These are my thoughts, transcribed after a long day work - a long day I won’t complain about…this time.


Please leave comments below.

Thanks for reading and keep in touch.

Question Concerning Lonliness

This entry posses a question, and my hope is that we can gather some thoughts on this question from survivors of traumatic incidents, brain injury and otherwise, in the comments.  Or if anyone else has thoughts, please share them as well.


But first, the question’s context - Ever since my accident, I’ve often felt like the one on the outside of a social group or maybe some accessory to a scene, acknowledged due to my role or duty in the situation, but not because of any desire from other people for interaction - not cast out or avoided, but never sought.  I’ve felt as the loner, though often not by choice.

For those who know me, these thoughts may seem strange - I have consistently been socially active and have a wide array of friends, but as my mind works, I often feel as though I am inserting myself among these social groups - they put up with me.  Its not that I’m not enjoyed or accepted, there’s just no desire from others for me to be around.  People don’t call me, instead I call to ask, “Hey, is anything going on tonight?”  I should also say that this is not how I feel about all people - I am fortunate to have an amazing girlfriend and I know she wants to spend her time with me - just with most.  I recognize, what could be considered, the baselessness of my beliefs and I don’t purport to have a solid logic tied into these emotions, but this is how I feel.


Tied to that, I recognize that many of my life choices haven’t followed the “typical” path, and this may have something to do with the sensations of loneliness.  Beginning with my graduate degree of storytelling, this is a solo performance art and is also a fringe from that struggles to gain mainstream recognition.  These facts make it hard to connect through conversations about the job - if a conversation brings up my passion I, and this could be a personal tick, tend to become a performer instead of a discussion partner by demonstrating my art.  While initially entertaining, I recognize how this might be tiering for extended friendships.  Furthermore, when the opportunity of teaching abroad revealed itself to me, I quickly plucked myself out of my home country of America and planted myself in Korea, where I didn’t (and still don’t) speak the language, yet still, in many instances involving people in my circle of friends, I feel as if I am accepted because I ask to be, not because I am sought.

Please don’t misread this as any deep pain or a cry for help - First off, this is not an destroying feeling, just a sense I get in many or maybe event the majority of social situations.  Furthermore, I am comfortable with perception of my current social position in life and have also been blessed to be in a relationship with an amazing, inspiring woman who I know wants me as part of her life.  I am not depressed about this, at least not anymore - I have come to terms and am happy with my social life, but am now seeking a better understanding.  I do not mean to suggest that any of these feelings blanket my existence, yet I also don’t want to deny that they exist.

Which is why I write this entry. 

And now the question:

Do other survivors of brain injury and/or other traumatic incidents feels a similar marginalization by society?  I want to know if there is any more of this sort of experience - I am interested in understanding it more and I think I can do that best if you share your story as well.  Thank you and I look forward to your responses.

Lonliness and Moments of Understanding

As a pall draped across existence, loneliness quickly saps motivation and inspiration.  I hesitate to call it an emotion, because it so often acts in concert with all emotions - though often paired with sadness, one can just as easily be celebrating a joyous occasion with friends and laughter yet feel a lonely swamp beneath one’s smile.  What’s more, this condition can easily be constant.  Granted, there can be moments that pass as companions arrive, but when one is engulfed by the condition it will not leave - and as it plagues your being, even the desire to be rid of it can become elusive.

I remember loneliness in my recovery.  Surrounded by dozens of active supporters - family, friends, therapists, doctors - the sense of loneliness didn’t logically make sense, but I couldn’t deny that it was there.  Countless solitary moments of questioning - questions I couldn’t share with anyone for fear they would question my sanity - questions of self identity, self-worth, self motivation, appropriate self denial.  As I write this, I notice the word self is dominate in these questions, and as I reflect, that might be a source of where the loneliness came from - questions of Self sent by the self. 

Some, at appropriate times, were shared, but the very act of sharing only increased the solitary nature of the search - other’s can’t identify with the linguistically indescribable complexity of these questions and for a questioning person to reach out only to feel the listener, even a professional listener, can’t even see the context of the question you are trying to present is disheartening to say the least.

Now there were moments of understanding, but only in rare, unanticipated, unrepeatable circumstances: a stranger at a concert - a homeless man on the streets of Memphis - a fellow solitary wonderer on a forest trail.  Each of these connections were fleeting, and likely would have dissipated had the opportunity for an extended relationship presented itself, but that’s not to say these moments weren’t important and endlessly gratifying - they let me understand that life can and would (and will) continue through an endless collage of tragically beautiful moments of understanding. 

We are alone - every one of us - and no one can truly comprehend the Fullness of any one person.  Our goal as survivors, or as humans, shouldn’t be to find answers from any one individual or one source - such a goal is either doomed for a necessary failure or the creation of an unhealthily dependent dogma.  The goal must be to exist, to be ready for, and embrace the moments of unspeakable understanding that might come in any of the momentary meetings or extended relationships that decorate our lives.  And we must let those moments pass - recognized and appreciated - but not held, for if you hold somethings too tight, it’s very likely that it will become strangled.

Deep breath.  Not at all where I expected this entry to lead, and I found the journey interesting as I wrote it.  I do believe everything I wrote, just expected to focus on the specific feelings of loneliness that often come to recovery.  I will come back to that topic of loneliness in the future, but feel I need to leave this entry as it is - I think I hit upon something important, though I don’t feel the thoughts in this entry have been completed yet.  That said, I hope they help someone, or does something for anyone - or at least provides a few poetic passages to ruminate on.  Whatever your thoughts are, please keep in touch and leave your comments below.

Bambooing It

As may have been clear in my most recent entry, I am not entirely happy with my current employment situation - the school I work at demands long hours and has an educational philosophy that I strongly disagree with.  Furthermore, due to financial difficulties imposed by my last employer becoming a criminal and fleeing Korea (where I currently live), my girlfriend has had to return to her native country (Russia) until we are financially more secure.  This is not the best of times.

That said, this is also not the worst of times - it’s merely a time that happens to have some difficulties.  My world has not ended, nor are there insurmountable challenges.  The next eleven months will likely be difficult in many ways, but they need no be damning.  In truth, my life is not that bad - I have a job I don’t like and I’m lonely without my lover, but I’m alive and there’s a path to take to that will likely lead to a better future.

My girlfriend has dubbed a new verb to describe what we’re going through - we must “bamboo” through life right now.  This means we push ourselves to continue growing in what is not currently the best of spaces (as bamboo is able to do) - and we must remain strong as we grow, toughening our skin (like bamboo) so that we do not even consider breaking under the stress of the current situation.  For this reason, bamboo can be a symbol of our current growth in life - finding nourishment for continued growth despite difficult circumstances and using these situations to strengthen so that we will never break.  We are bambooing it.

I share this idea because I believe it is an important state of mind to hold onto while in recovery.  The healing process after brain injury, or other traumatic experiences, is never easy.  Physically, one’s body is reconnecting functions that may have never been previously acknowledged, while mentally, there is a complete rewiring of synapses simultaneously occurring with a rediscovery and recreation of self-identity.  This is not “a walk in the park”, but neither is it “a walk to the grave site”.  The challenge of recovery is not to merely get past the challenges presented, but to accept and learn from them.  To find a way to make oneself stronger and more resilient while remaining beautiful - to bamboo your way through the situation.

I know this is not a simple task, and I don’t mean to oversimplify the process - recovery is a roller coaster of trials that will provide far more falls and frustrations than epiphanies of self-reflexive contemplation - yet growth is possible.  The challenge of a survivor is to accept what has happened and to see how that by dealing with the circumstances, the individual can improves his or her own character.

Yet keep in mind that the recognition of personal growth probably won’t occur as it’s happening.  From my own experience, it has only been the 15 years since my rehabilitation that allows me to look back on my recovery and can see the lessons it taught me.  Furthermore, I most certainly do not encourage anyone to receive lessons in any similar manner, but what I want to highlight from my experience is that I allowed myself to grow (though sometimes I had to be prodded by outside inspirations to do the growth).  The roots dug deep and, despite despicable circumstances, they allowed my being to grow - perhaps, even, to grow stronger.  I was bambooing it.

With this in mind, I will shout out to all survivors - life is not easy, it is not fair nor is it just - life simply is.  We have to make the choice of enjoying it or sulking in miseries.  To help with this decision, try bambooing it - we grow a tough skin while still reaping the nourishment from any situation that offers itself - we grow tall, strong and become hella hard to break.

This isn’t a fix-all solution - this idea doesn’t make the recovery process any easier - yet keeping this idea in mind can provide a supportive mindset as recovery continues.

Those are my thoughts, supplemented by my girlfriend’s terminology, but I would love to hear your thoughts on the subject.  I would also love to hear any stories of you “bambooing” it through a job, a recovery, or whatever your journey has brought you.  Please leave comments below.

Frontal Lobe Injury

In the piece “Who Am I, Again?”, the character Sarah (not her real name) has a moment when she shares - “Ever since my accident, I get real excited real quick…and then I also cry a lot.  I don’t understand it - that’s just, how I feel.”

In brain injury, one of the parts that is often injured is the frontal lobe region, and this is the part of the brain that’s associated with aspects of emotional self-control.  This damage can often lead to a tendency to overreact - to illustrate, when something is good it’s OMG, WFT, THAT IS AMAZING! but when it’s bad - the world has left and the only eventuality is death so why not shorten the wait.  Please note, these examples are characterizations and not meant to speak for every case, but they do seek to highlight the absurdity these emotional extremes can reach.

As a survivor, I know the biggest difficulty that emerged from these emotional extremities was, and still is, my rage.  It can suddenly swell from some slight, relatively mild, bruise of my desires or ego that wells into a torrent of rage and unanticipated anger - dominating my mind and body, though typically my soul is consciously criticizing each lash given by my other facilities, thereby causing the rage to increase - a sickening cycle.  I’ve mentioned this struggle in previous posts, but feel it is something that needs to be acknowledged consistently because I recognize that - while my self-control has, and is continuing to, improve - I have not fully tamed that beast within my being.

This reflection brings me to one of my reasons for writing this blog, and my hope to use it as the base of a platform from which to encourage a movement in storytelling for medical and emotional recovery in brain injury and other conditions. 

Brain injury is a hidden condition - if someone has lost an arm, that loss is typically acknowledged and most people will seek to accommodate that person’s needs.  This is a good, altruistic instinct that is still deep within humanity and I am glad for it.  In brain injury, however, the condition of a person is not always apparent - the body appears healed and so the assumption may be that the individual is healed, yet, as I hope my story reveals (and as any person who has close experience with brain injury knows), the healing is never truly complete.  Many people have no idea that they know a survivor of brain injury, and my hope is that with storytelling, many can be made aware of these experiences and this healing process can be more easily recognized and better accepted.

I do not suggest that uncontrolled emotions should be made socially acceptable - the emotional control of a person allows society to function and must be fostered so that there is an acceptable behavior norm - but by encouraging the sharing of experiences, my hope is that those who do suffer from a lack of self-control are encouraged in healing and directed toward help.  I was fortunate in my recovery that both my parents are open minded, dedicated researchers who were able to provide appropriate professional support in my healing and self-control regaining processes - I have no doubt this is one of the primary reasons for the success of my rehabilitation - yet I suggest that with more awareness of the struggles and successes of other survivors, many would be able to drastically improve their own healing and be guided toward the needed services.

These are my thoughts on the subject.  I’m still researching and seeking more evidence to support (or refute) my claims.  I would love to hear your thoughts on the subject, so please leave a note in the comments below.  I hope to chat soon.

Focused on the Future

You may have noticed that I haven’t been posting as often lately.  The primary reason for that is my new job as an English instructor at the Poly School Academy in Pohang, South Korea.  With this position, I leave my house at 8:50 every morning, Monday to Friday, and get home a little after 8pm each night.  This has limited the time I can give to writing and research.  My goal is to compose two postings each week (on the weekend), but this output may increase or decrease as the weeks roll by.

That said, I DO NOT LIKE MY NEW JOB!

I recognize that I am fortunate to be employed and that I am currently living a relatively comfortable lifestyle, but simultaneously, there are many things about this position that I find appalling, but I don’t want to focus on that - I want to focus on why I took this position.

This position is a crutch - a way to move me toward my future goals.  It’s hard, long work hours and I don’t agree with the education system at the school, but it’s only temporary.  It’s an event that is a part of my life, but it’s not not the whole of my life.  It’s just a time that I’m using to get me to where I want to be.

Back to brain injury - it was terrible, frustrating, difficult, and at times seemed defeating - but it was also just a time.  The goal (and eventually the result) was that I would once again become fully active in the world and share my ideas in an attempt to better this existence for everyone.  Recovery can be merely a time to move you on to the the time that you want.

Life rumbles along, bouncing over bumps along the trail, but what needs to occur within a recovering person is the acceptance of this divot ridden path as a part of her or her history.  I do not like my current job and I did not like my brain injury, but both are a part of the experiences that have made, and are making, me.  At the same time, both these experiences are only part of what is me.  Focus on goals - the reason you want to recover - and see each step as moving you there.

This job is only a temporary snag in life - I’ll work through it and move to the next adventure.  Brain injury is a much bigger snag, but you’re alive and by moving forward, brain injury can also be a thing that you’re working through to move further along in the journey.

Anger Inside

Recovery never ends and often, a tick or habit that begins after brain injury will continue to plague you, quite possibly, for the rest of your life.

I say that because one tick that has been hurting me for years, and is common among people who have suffered frontal lobe brain damage, is anger.  The anger can arise suddenly, striking like a viper and making one real back in a painful rage that lashes out, hurting others.

Sometimes, I blame my anger on my injury, but that is no excuse.

The damage is caused by me, not my injury.  The anger takes control of me in the present, not me at the time of my injury.  Any rage is my responsibility.

It’s easy to use the excuse, and I’ve done this at times, “Well, that’s my brain injury, I’m sorry but I can’t do anything about it.”  That’s bullshit. 

I call bullshit on myself, and anyone else who says that.  As survivors of brain injury we have been gifted a second chance at life and it is our responsibility to understand and tame any damning reminder of brain injury, regardless of the situation in life.  Any damaging, personal ticks come from any injury are still one’s personal responsibility.   Don’t ever believe otherwise.

That’s not to say we shouldn’t have help.  Friends, family members, trained professionals can all help a person with anger, and I encourage reaching out to all of these resources in a way that feels comfortable, but the responsibility for healing and managing personal dark spots is still on oneself.  Every person is a product of the things that happen to him or her, and to shun responsibility because of “this” or “that” excuse is not accepted, nor should it be.  As a survivor, we do not want to be defined by our injury, therefore, we should not try to use our injury as an excuse for our actions.

I recognize this isn’t always easy.  Brain damage does make it harder to control impulses and extreme reactions, but one’s goal, if he or she wishes to remain an active member of society, must be to temper and control these reactions to the best of one’s ability.


I don’t write this because of any recent incident - as time moves forward, I have found myself better able to control my anger, but there are still times when rage dominates me.  I can now see, my anger is a part of my history and does try to influence my contemporary self.  What’s important, however, is to not let this vice define me, but rather use it as an opportunity to grow.  There’s a dragon inside of me, but my goal is tame it instead of being burned by the flame.

Nicknamed "The Gimp"

As mentioned in an earlier posting, I play piano, and as part of that, I was in a high school and early college Rock ’n Roll band that was modeled, in large part, after the band Phish - by this I mean we played songs with moderately simple chord structures and then improvised around those chords.  We weren’t bad, but by no means amazing.  The band formed just before my accident, and several of my closest friends from high school were in the group, and there was no doubt I would rejoin when I returned from the hospital.  It was fun, and it gave me a chance to be socially active.


But it wasn’t always an easy social interaction.  As often happens with brain injury, especially during early recovery, my accident changed a lot of my behaviors and this was difficult for my bandmates to understand.  Here was this classmate they had spent years with - they had an image in their mind of who I was - but now I was overly affectionate, quick to anger, slow to comprehend a situation, and more common traits associated with recovery from brain injury.  All the band members were supportive and did their best to be understanding - probably more so than many people would be - but they were also high school guys.  They didn’t understand something, so they sought to label it in a way they could laugh.  And so I took on the label “Gimp”.

It became my nickname, my title, and something I even encouraged by pasting it into my own language.  If I made a mistake, it was easy enough to pass it off as an error of the Gimp, and as the name was used more often, I found it an easy way to amuse.  “Don’t blame me, I’m a Gimp,” would often pull out a laugh.  At least at first, but as usage of the term developed, I began to feel the cutting implications in the term. 

Gimp is defined by Google as, “A physically handicapped or lame person; A feeble or contemptible person.”  I didn’t know this at the time, but this was clearly how the term was making me feel.  As use of the term continued and I began to feel it defined me, and the attitude of the band members became darker as well.  There was one incident which I didn’t learn about until years later, where I was excluded from a social event because one member stated, “I just don’t want to deal with the Lethan circus.”  As time passed, it seemed this attitude grew - it had been a year since my accident, I was in college, I was alive, why the hell couldn’t I act like I used to - or at least more normal?  There was a certain, thinly veiled contempt by some band members toward having to do things with me.

Now, I must be perfectly clear when I say I feel no ill will toward any members of the band or my experience in the group.  There were still a lot of fun times when the recovery from brain injury didn’t factor into our performances, and in retrospect, when the issue involving my recovery did come into play, I can see how this would be hard for anyone, especially high school boys - being in a band is, in many ways, about rebelling from responsibility, and here they’ve got this guy they need to keep an eye on to make sure he doesn’t do something irreversibly damaging. 

Yet, this sense of being on the outskirts of the band - not fully a member - did hurt.  I went from being a relatively popular “high school hippie performer” to someone my friends kept at a safe distance.  I’m not sure the pain from that transition will ever fully heal.  That’s not meant to be a cry for self pity, but a recognition of the reality of the emotions.  I expect that there are many survivors who have also had to come to terms with these feelings of social stratification, and that may be scar that can never fully mend, but that’s only my informed guess.

There is also no clear resolution to this memory - no obvious ending.  Things move on, and some must remain unresolved.  The band went the way of many high school bands - dissolving as college took members to other parts of the country.  I’ve remained close with some, lost contact with others, and life continues.  As I’ve reflected on these memories for this blog entry, I’m recognizing how important these events were to me and how I may be still struggling with some of them, but have pushed these thoughts to the peripheries of my mind for decades.  Returning to these memories by sharing this story is allowing me to look at the events from a new perspective and with a new maturity.  Something to think about - thanks for letting me share.

Article Review: When Patients Share Their Stories, Health May Improve

The New York Times article “When Patients Share their Stories, Health May Improve”  shares a summary of information that has already been presented in this blog.  As stated in the article, “…Stories are an essential part of who we communicate, interpret experiences and incorporate new information into our lives.”  It then goes on to cite a study reported in The Annals of Internal Medicine suggesting storytelling helps patients with high blood pressure.  The article succinctly presents the information as, “…It appears that at least for one group of patients, listening to personal narratives helped control high blood pressure as effectively as the addition of more medication.”  The article goes on to suggest that storytelling can be most helpful in “silent” diseases - in other words, diseases that have few symptoms that are not externally obvious or immediate, such as diabetes or high blood pressure.  Due to the lack of external symptoms, these conditions are easy to ignore even after diagnosis, yet, as in the article, “Stories help break down that denial by engaging the listener.”

My response to this article is brief - I like it.  It is a summary of what is starting to happen in storytelling medical research.  It also recognizes what has hampered storytelling research for many years, the lack of quantifiable evidence.  As noted in the article, “A vast majority of studies (about storytelling) have been anecdotal, offering up neither data nor statistics but rather…stories to back up the authors’ claims.”  This piece then goes on to cite the high blood pressure study in African American patients, a study mentioned in a previous article review, and recognize how quantifiable data is becoming available to support the medical benefits of storytelling.

The aspect of this article that most excites me is the fact it was in the New York Times.  This demonstrates that the idea of storytelling in medicine is becoming more accepted by popular culture and publicly recognized by the medical community.  Granted, as far as I can tell, it has not received mainstream recognition, but something is happening.  My hope is that this blog will continue to flourish, and help, in some small way, to further the this recognition and acceptance of medical storytelling.

Please share your thoughts below.

Article: Paulina W. Chen, M.D., “When Patients Share Their Stories, Health May Improve”. Published February 10th, 2011 in the New York Times. http://www.nytimes.com/2011/02/10//health/views/10chen.html  Accessed February 5th, 2016.

A Package from Phish

I adored the band Phish from the moment I first heard their music in my friend’s car cassette player (remember those) when i was in the 9th grade.  The “Phishhead” culture quickly became a part of my life and I joyfully saw three performances in the fall of 1999.  As a committed fan (or Phan), I was especially enthusiastic of Page McConnell, the band’s keyboardist, as I also played piano and I found the melding of musical styles in his playing inspiring.


Just before my accident, several friends and I had purchased tickets for a Phish performance in Philadelphia, and although I was in a Philadelphia hospital when the performance happened, I was unable to attend (for obvious reasons).


I bring this up because on December 22nd, the day before I was scheduled to leave the hospital, a package arrived for me.  Who was sending me a package?  Was it an early Christmas present?  Not knowing what to expect, I was still completely unprepared when I opened the package and found a mother-load of Phish merchandise - fleece jacket, unreleased CD, biographic book, video project on a VHS, two other CDs…and the list continues, but what brought the most joy was at the bottom of the package - under the mountains of memorabilia, a hand written note:  “Dear Lethan, So sorry to hear of your accident, pleased to hear of your recovery.  Keep in touch and we’ll get you to a show this summer. (signed) Page McConnell”

I was floored - this was my musical idol sending me a get well package!

This was exciting, and I think it speaks to the character of the band, but as the years have passed and I’ve been able to reflect on this gift, I recognize these material goods as a representation of why I believe my recovery was so successful.  Material goods are insignificant, but the meaning comes from gifting that bit of added effort to show a person you care.  Page McConnell gave me a lot of merchandise, but what touched me more than any of the material items was that he took the bit of time to write me a note.  Yet this is insignificant compared to what allowed him to be aware of my condition.

After the thrill and joy of receiving the package, I came to understand how this rock star was made aware of my condition.  That I was a fan of the band was well known, and as I was in a Philadelphia hospital while the band would be visiting the city, a letter writing campaign began among my friends and family - “Our friend Lethan is a huge fan of Phish, especially of Page McConnell, and he has a ticket to go to one of the concerts in Philadelphia.  Unfortunately, he was in a serious car accident and will be unable to attend as he is currently in Magee Rehabilitation Hospital, also in Philadelphia.  If you can get word to him in some way, he would greatly appreciate it.  Thank you.” - or some variation of this.

This campaign went on consistently, without my knowledge from dozens of people, but the message I believe finally got through to the band was hand delivered to the band on the night of the concert - or at least nearly so.


Two mothers went along to this concert as chaperones, drivers, hip middle-aged ladies, and because we had (my) extra ticket (one mother was already planning on attending, but the second came for moral support).  These mothers took it upon themselves to approach security at the concert with a copy of the letter and, with pleading eyes, negotiate their way to the band’s dressing-room by explaining my situation.  They were not allowed to cross this final barrier, but the security guard at this last obstacle offered to personally deliver the message as he sent the mothers back to the crowd.  I don’t know if is was this letter, or from the bucket of other letters that got his attention, but something got through to the band.  Again, what touches me about this experience isn’t the final result of the package, though that was greatly enjoyed, but the numbers of people giving a little extra effort to reach out for a friend - writing that letters, approaching the security.  I feel it was the people giving this added energy, just a little when they could - nothing extreme - but making sure they gave that energy.  This force, be it subconsciously or spiritually or socially or what have you, encouraged my body- giving that added bit of energy toward healing and allowing me to have had such a successful recovery.  Supplying the energy of a smile for someone in need can be that bit of healing that helps just that much more - sometimes that’s all we can do, but sometimes, that’s what someone needs most.


Please share your thoughts in the comments below.  Chat soon.

Me with my Phishhead friends

Article Review: The Importance of Telling (and Listening) to the Story

The article “The Importance of Telling (and Listening) to the Story" by Kirsti A Dyer, MD is an overview of reasons storytelling is important in the medical practice.  The piece simply defines what it means by telling a story, and then goes through an explanation - filled with cited examples - of why this story sharing process is important.


Much of the work focuses on healing from grief, either due to a personal loss of ability or the loss of someone close to you.  In Dr. Dyer’s words, “When a loss of significant life change occurs people need to adapt their life story to include the loss…Developing a narrative allows a person to weave there life changes into a new more cohesive story.”  We need stories to makes sense of what happens - inserting events into a timeline that shows a complete process.  I wrote about something similar to this in a previous entry (February 10th, “Life Will Happen”) and I agree that we need to see the prior and after events in a tragedy to understand the entire journey, but Dr. Dyer takes this idea a step further by suggesting using storytelling as the tool for that task.

She also emphasizes how storytelling is a tool to construct a set of purposes for a difficult situation.  She writes, “Stories allow physicians and patients to communicate, look for meaning in their illness, and discover ways of coping.”  This is something I hadn’t thought of, but can easily agree with - when a tragic situation that I cannot understand develops, I quickly fall back to a fatalist or nihilistic philosophy - what does anything matter, its all just random, meaningless events - and this can trample my urge to respond in a productive manner.  With storytelling, as laid out by Dr. Dyer, one can transform the tragedy into a part of a grand story.  My piece “Who Am I, Again?” attempted to do just that, and I can testify that since I began working with that story, the events of my accident, while still hard, seem less tragic and more passing.

There is also a recognition of the importance of listening by the physician in this process.  In Dr. Dyer’s words, “By listening to the story of loss, illness or disease the physician gives the patient a chance to express his / her concerns.”  By listening to a patient’s story, a physician is given the chance to take better care of that person.  One of my first entries into this blog was about the nursing staff at my rehabilitation hospital in Philadelphia (January 14th, “A Good Memory from Magee Rehabilitation”), and in that entry, I mention how there was one nurse in particular (they were all good, but this man stands out in my mind) who would make it a point to kneel beside my wheelchair and really listen to my difficulties, and this simply task helped me to feel a greater sense of calm that made my time in that hospital endlessly better.

The entire article is filled with examples and support of the thesis that storytelling is important from both sides of a healing situation - from the patient as well as the care-giver.  Dr. Dyer also acknowledges that there is beginning to be a recognition of the value of storytelling in healing in contemporary medicine, and she is glad for this and encouraging it to continue.  As she concludes, “Physicians may be unable to take away the pain and grief following a loss, however we can listen.  Listening to a patient’s story of loss or illness, if even for just a few moments, can be beneficial in integrating, healing and recovering from the loss.”

I loved this article for several reasons - it is direct and easy to understand, the information is presented in an objective manner, and there are a host of citations of studies (which I am in the process of following up on) that support the thesis that storytelling is important for healing.  Previously (primarily while in graduate school for Storytelling), I had heard arguments about the medical benefits of storytelling laden with lots of impassioned sentiment - I do not mean to criticize such passions and I feel this passion holds validity, but the argument in this paper is presented in a pragmatic manner granting it more power in the scientific and medical communities.


Yet I still have questions that rose while reading.  As part of her “Definitions” section, Dr. Dyer states, “Telling the Story focuses on the act of relating anecdotes and telling healing stories; this can be accomplished via several methods - verbal or written narratives, tape or video recordings.”  My question - is there a difference in how these mediums affect the Storyteller (patient or grieving person)?  I suggest that the immediate storytelling performance - the Storyteller speaking to his / her friends and family - is far more therapeutic - both for the performer and the audience - as the intimacy of a story cannot be replicated through any sort of video or audio production.  I find the idea of a camcorder or a audio recorder set on a stand in front of the speaker to be very mechanized when compared to the engaging live interaction of storytelling.  I have not, however, found any studies that support or refute this suggestion, but Dr. Dyer does not address the question.

My second question concerns the responsibility of the doctor to listen to and empathize with a patient’s story - this seems like it may be outside the physician’s expertise.  As stated in the article, “May physicians may feel untrained with their patient’s grief.”  I suggest that this is an unfair burden to place upon physicians.  Listening is an active process, and to become a skilled listener can take a significant amount of training - granted, there are some people who are naturally good listeners, but to suggest that a physician should be trained and/or skilled in this ability seems out of place.  Psychologists are trained to be listeners, and for that reason I suggest that patients would be better served if there can be an open dialogue between psychologists and physicians during a sever medical procedure so the Psychologist can assist n the listening process.  Granted, I am ignorant in both fields, but from my experience, and having friends and relations in these professions, to expect a doctor to listen is putting another heaping ladle full of responsibility on a plate of duties that is already filled to the edge.

This is not intended take away from Dr. Dyer’s article in any manner - I believe she has a deep understanding of the subject matter through her research.  I also expect I will be returning to this article many times for support of my thesis - that storytelling assists in physical and mental healing.  My hope is that these questions continue the discussion, helping the medical field find the best ways to help people recover and become more fully alive.

Those are my thoughts - I highly recommend reading this article and would love to get your thoughts in the comments.

Article: Kristi A Dyer, MD, MS. “The Importance of Telling (and Listening) to the Story”. Published December 6th, 2001 on Journey of Hearts website.  Accessed February 1st, 2016. http://journeyofhearts.org/kirstimd/tellstory.htm

I wanted to jump...

This is a short, but somewhat disturbing memory.


When I returned from the hospital, living with my parents again and doing outpatient rehabilitation, my mind was in a very immature space.  Now, I’ve always had a temper and fought with my parents, but the anger had taken on a new flair - looking back on events, I will say that my rages had a performance quality to them.

These incidents embarrass me.  I don’t write this to justify any of my actions, but to try and honestly explain my decent into a fury.  What I remember most is wanting complete independence, and I wanted the world, or at least my family, to know how unfair my situation was.  The need for restrictions on my behavior was real, and I could see that - in someways I think I may have raged to prove that I still needed these restrictions.  This self struggle would cause a greater hatred to burn inside me - hatred not of anyone, but of everything, yet often released toward my parents.


The specific memory that comes to me for this entry is in the car with my mother - we were returning from something - it may have been outpatient therapy - and I wanted something that she wasn't letting me have.  I don’t remember specifically what it was, but I remember it wasn’t that important.  The car was a hot bed for my rage as I yelled at her, and I remember threatening to throw myself out of the car and into traffic.  I remember grabbing the door handle and my mother giving up - calling my bluff so to speak.  What is scary is that I’m not sure how big a bluff that threat was.  My hands clutched the door handle - it would be easy and maybe I would die, or if I didn’t I’d probably return to having brain injury - I could go through the miracle part of recovery while I’m in the hospital again.  And she would feel guilty.  I relished that last thought.

Fortunately, the seemingly microscopic remnants of good sense grabbed my hand and didn’t let me throw myself out.  This moment sticks in my head - something I really wanted to do.  It also speaks to the necessary nature of having something to assist with self-restraint.  In the majority of situations, both my parents really were amazing at how they were able to keep things together and help me to remember my more reasonable mind, but in that instance it was close.  Maybe the reason I remember this moment is because that is a moment where I was forced to take responsibility for my actions - it was my responsibility not to be arrogantly obtuse, and what I did wasn’t my mother’s fault.  Maybe I needed to learn that.



That’s my memory.  A hard memory to play in my head, but I share it here in the hopes that it helps someone and may spark some memories for you.

Life will Happen...

In the storytelling piece “Who Am I, Again?”, there is a moment near the end when Larry has a short speech that I want to highlight here.

He says:

“If I could have any wish I wanted, any wish at all?  I don’t know what I would wish for.  But one that I wouldn’t wish, I wouldn’t wish that my accident didn’t happen.  I mean, I’m not glad that it happened, ‘cause it sucked, like, a lot, but then I’ve also done a lot of things because of my accident, met a lot of cool people I wouldn’t have met without my accident.  So my accident, it, it really made me who I am - and I like that.”

The person that the character of Larry is based on told me that story when I was researching at the Crumley house, sitting in the common room, a Nintendo Wi controller in his lap, and I remember these words deeply touching - really rearranging many of my own thoughts.  Life didn’t go the way Larry had planned, but it rarely does.  Life happened, and part of that included having brain injury.  His deep wisdom is recognizing that life would happen regardless - without the brain injury his next steps would have been different, but that doesn’t mean they would have been better.  Different events would have happened that may or may not have had such an immediately drastic effect, but these events - large or small - would have altered his path in life, regardless.  Instead of bemoaning what did happen and wondering what might have been, he has decided to look at his current life, recognize he enjoys may parts of it, and appreciate it for what ti is.

His words allowed me to reexamine my own view of my injury and recovery.  Often, my take was that the events were tragic - a lot of terrible things happened and the course of my life was forced to go down paths I didn’t want.  Upon reexamining, however, I realized my focus was too tied to the events immediately surrounding the accident - if the metaphorical camera on my life was pulled back, events began to look more rewarding.  Many of the consequences of being forced to stay in my hometown as I recovered were glorious - I discovered Storytelling and Philosophy, which led to video production work, which led to living a working in Korea, which led to becoming part of an amazing romance between an American (me) and a Russian (my partner), which led to acquiring the cutest devil of a cat (there's a pic of Benji below).  Granted, there is no straight line that leads from my accident to Benji, but all the events are connected, and if any event, including my accident, had happened differently, life would be very different for me - not better, not worse, just different.

I won’t say that the brain injury was some sort of a blessing, but I will say I have been able to gain knowledge and skills that couldn’t have come by any other path.  Life will happen, and its not all roses, but it is all connected - just pull the camera back and the harder moments can all be part of a beautiful picture, and every frame of this picture makes a part of who you are.  Please share any thoughts in the comments, as the cat looks on...

Seductive Anger

Anger is a seductive devil.  Anger at a person, a situation, a state of being - it slips into your soul, enveloping your being, taking control of action, reaction - and damning it all.  It feels so good while it controls you, but leaves a field of damage in its wake.

It’s easy to get angry at what caused a traumatic experience, and while this might feel justified and self vindicating in a moment, it rarely accomplishes anything positive - the rage invigorates, but then leaves you drained.

Anger gets its drive from an energy in our spirit, and by embracing that energy it can be used to surpass difficulties and discover new skills.  This is not easy.  It will cause frustration and very possibly more pain, but the rewards are monumental.  It’s a matter of deciding what you want to discover about yourself.  Embrace the challenge - climb the mountain of difficulties in recovery and let this lift you to new heights.  Don’t let the anger drag you down.


As I reread over what I just wrote (above), I’m afraid these words may sound like something you've probably heard time and time again - and I don’t mean to write canned sayings.  These ideas are not unique or original, they have been shared many times before, and probably in a manner more eloquent than mine.  Its easy to let them pass without acknowledging them - like a pop song on the radio that’s been played too many times, so that hearing the opening bars shuts down the ears - but as I think about this, i recognize the ideas are necessary to repeat until they become a mantra, something you are constantly reminding yourself.

I come to this theme today because I have anger issues I need to deal with - when I feel the world is cheating me in some way, a rage begins to boil like lava in my blood, and if I’m not careful that molten brew will spew out of me and harm innocent relationships regardless of whether the person had anything to do with the situation - my anger has the urge to lash out, but this never accomplishes anything except to create regret.  Acknowledging this helps me to recognize that every difficulty is an opportunity to grow - to learn - to create new paths.  A far harder journey, but one that I can look back at with pride.


Angel Kiss

I was kissed by an angel, but I don’t know her name.

Those are the opening lyrics to a song I wrote.  The song began just before my accident - I had recently gone through a high school breakup and was writing books of depressed, banal poetry when finally, I decided that enough of that - it was time to write something a bit more joyful, so I pulled out my notebook and began to scribble the words to a song.  I had the words, but try as I might, I couldn’t find the proper music to accompany what I heard in my head, so I figured I would come back to it.


Then, within a day or two, I had my accident.



Months of recovery passed and I didn’t remember anything about the song - there were more important things to focus on.  My stay at the hospital ended, I returned home, and never thought about the song.

Until I began to sing it.

It was a sunny Saturday afternoon and I was walking up East 3rd Street toward my house when a bit of music got stuck in my head - I began to sing along, mumbling as I walked.  I knew the song I was singing, but then I focused on it and I couldn’t figure out how I knew it, until I realized I wrote the piece.  As soon as I got home, I sat at the piano and instantly the accompanying music came to my fingers. 

I like this piece, its probably the best rock song I ever wrote (there aren’t many, but a few), but in light of my accident, this piece has a deeper meaning.  My father was the person who actually pointed this out to me, saying that, when my accident happened, I was kissed by an angel - and that kiss saved my life.

As I’ve said in previous entries, I don’t believe in a God as prescribed by any particular religion, but I do find it interesting that the words came back to me so clearly after my brain injury.  Something kept me alive as I pushed through my recovery - maybe it was an angel.

The complete lyrics:

I was kissed by an angel, but I don’t know her name.
See I think that she’s from heaven, tell you things aren’t quite the same.
When I looked into her eyes, I was taken by surprise,
My life, it was changed.


And I know that there’s forever,
and I know that she’ll be there.
‘cause I catch a glimpse of heaven,
when I see her beside me there.



In the arms of an angel, every dream of mine came true.

She held on to me tightly, said boy, I want to be with you.
Joyous life filled up my heart, our souls will never part,
Now my world, it was changed.


And I know the light will shine down on me,
her smile, makes that clear.
Being with her takes me through the pearly gates,
what comes next I will not fear.

I made love to an angel, our souls combined as one.
I still feel her arms around me, as I lie beneath the sun.
My life was filled with bliss by that girl with just one kiss,
I still don’t know her name.

I'm a pianist...of sorts.

I am a pianist…of sorts.  Having played since I was seven or eight, I sometimes joke, “I’m just good enough to know how good I’m not.”

When I returned from the hospital, I felt like I still remembered the piano - I didn’t remember my skill level before my accident (I still don’t really know what I was), but I thought I was doing okay.  I’m certain I didn’t practice enough - there was a lot going on with recovery and, being a high school student, practicing a musical instrument wasn’t highest on my agenda, but to me, it seemed there had been a hiccup in my musical life and now I was back on track.

But apparently something had changed.

I was in a classical lesson, showing my work on a minuet (or some other moderately difficult piece), and my teacher was frustrated - I probably hadn’t practiced enough and he might have felt he was wasting his time, but he finally spouted out, “Lethan, I don’t know what it is, but you just don’t have the same touch as you did before you accident.  You can’t play with the same feeling.  I don’t know what to do.”


I didn't know what to do either.


Don’t read this article as though my teacher was the villain or the crusher of creativity or anything like that - I don’t blame him at all - I think he was a teacher frustrated because his student wasn't living up to his potential.  That’s reasonable, and I may have been similarly critical of students I’ve taught.  He wasn’t rude, he didn’t yell, he just voiced his frustration and, in standard teenager fashion, I blew it off - apologizing and promising to work harder and maybe I did work a little harder for the next couple weeks, but soon after that I quit piano lessons.

I’ve never seriously studied piano since.  I’ve dabbled here and there, and if I see a piano, I’ll likely drift toward it and dribble off some musical parlor tricks, but I’ve never invested the necessary time to reach my full potential.  Partly this is because circumstance hasn’t allowed for this - I keep myself busy and musical study takes a lot of time - but whenever I do get an opportunity to work for a slightly significant amount of time on some music, I hear those words…and I wonder what I would have been able to do.

I don’t want to write this memory with a lesson attached to it.  I can see many possible interpretations - don’t give up, watch what you say, don’t let other people put unfair expectations on you - and if this story helps you with that sort of message, great, but it is completely unintended.  For me, it is just the memory that came to my mind for today.

The Red Light

My mother and I were in a car on a state highway, returning from an out patient therapy appointment - she was driving.  For just a moment she was not being aware of the road, and I had to point out - “mom - Mom, the light’s red!  Stop!”

She hit the breaks, one arm thrown in front of me - a standard parental gesture to protect a child - and the car stopped without a problem.


Her eyes were wide, breathing heavy.  “Oh, Lethan, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up any memories from your accident - ”

“-Mom, don’t worry.  We’re fine.  No memories came up.  Don't worry, I don’t really have those.  I was in a coma, remember?”

A short little true story.  I still find it funny, through grated, it is a little dark.

Empty Eyes

This picture scares me.  I don’t actually remember it happening - its from before my memory returned, but what scares me is the emptiness in my eyes.  I know I’m there - that my mind is working - and I see a hint of awareness in those eyes, but they also look so blank - focused on simple repetition.

Despite not remembering this, I include this under the category of “memories” because I do remember having a sense of emptiness - something is there, just below the surface, but that - that something - for whatever reason, can’t be accessed.  I was able to verbalize this a few times - I don’t remember how I said it, but I do remember talking about it with my nurse, Morgan (see the earlier entry “A Good Memory from Magee Rehabilitation”), and my mother.  It felt that there was this river of potential boiling just beneath the surface, looking for any fissure so it could explode into the world - a creative volcano - but I couldn’t find where the opening was.  I used to know it - I remembered knowing it - but now it was lost.  The memory of feeling that emptiness is what terrifies me about this picture - that I might loose any creativity and become a slave to repetition.

Over the 15 years that followed that picture, my cognitive and creative abilities did return, but there was no “Eureka” moment, they just drizzled back into my brain.  Sometimes I wonder if my mental abilities are as good as they would have been without the accident, but I also recognize that this question is irrelevant - they are what is part of “me”, and that “me” experienced brain injury.

I believe my mental processes retuned in such a full manner because I was encouraged to be creative - not always to be correct or even create good work, but by encouraging original thought my mental muscles were exercised.  To prepare for a marathon, a runner slowly builds up stamina, running a little more everyday - not by being criticized for only running 5 kilometers one day.  Similarly, by encouraging me to try my mind was allowed to find new ways to run its creative marathon - not being limited to the previous paths, but forging new creative trails.


The memory brought up by this picture does scare me, but as I write this, I recognize it also provides a message of hope - a reminder that there doesn’t need to be a grand revelation when past skills return.  Any climatic event will cause changes in a person, and at first these can seem devastating - but they don’t need to be damning.  Know that it will take time to learn how to do this, and that’s okay - take your time.


Those are my thoughts, but I’d love to know yours.  Any stories of the rediscovery of old skills or the discovery of new ones?  Please, share in the comments below.

A Hand-Kissing Story

An obsession with hand kissing arose.

This came from a safely sexual story from my younger days - where I learned the “proper” way to kiss a woman’s hand.  The original story can’t be written, as it requires sound effects and quirky performance gestures - if there’s significant interest, I’ll share a video of the story - but the important thing was that this story was just crude enough to get a gasp, but not usually offend anyone.

But the “Hand Kissing” story isn’t important - what is important was my obsession with it - I would kiss every hand that was extended, and this leading to the tale.  It was simply what I did, and if I was being introduced to anyone these actions could be expected.  Now, I did master this storytelling - having told it well over 1,000 times - but my insistence on repeating the words with consistent verbal cadences and the identical punchline began to annoy the people I was around, especially those who spent any amount moderately significant amount of time with me.

For those who were new to the story, it usually got a laugh, and what I enjoyed was the repetition of situation and response - I had a joke I could tell - tell it well - and it would always get a reaction, usually a laugh.  For this reason, the tale refused to leave my introductory repertoire for more than a decade - I can still share the story, and occasionally do, but I deploy far more desecration when choosing a moment to talk.  The problem was that the joke became tired far quicker than I became tired of telling it.  The first 10, 20, or even a hundred times it was cute, but over time it became the one hit wonder that a rock band refuses to dismiss - the story grew lame.

Mixed feelings come up over this memory.  In its own way, the story was an important part of my recovery - it provided an outlet through which I got a response and it demonstrated my creativity.  Simultaneously, it became a crutch - a consistent trope I could return to without fear of failing - an oral safety net. 

This may have been an early hinting at my desire to embrace storytelling as my art form, but regardless, the story wore out, becoming an annoyance to those around me instead of an enjoyment.  My own reaction became fixed and rehearsed instead of a spontaneous mass of giggles.

Medical research and practice tells us that routines are important in the healing process - in brain injury, consistency helps a survivor know what to expect.  In this entry, however, what I suggest is that there should be caution about creating a reliance on - for lack of a better word - sameness.  Life is an event that insists on content adaptation to change, and creating a necessity for consistency can drape this thrilling experience with dull routine.  That’s what my “Hand Kissing” story became - a routine that lacked a way to discover something new.

As I wrote above, I have mixed feelings about this routine - in its original form, it was novel, interesting, and possibly an help in my recovery, but it became old - something I relied on instead of allowing new creativity to flourish.  The necessity of balance between routine and the new is something I would appreciate knowing more about - if you have any suggestions of studies or articles that address this question, please post and pass them along.  Also, any routines for you - as a help or a hinderance - I would appreciate hearing about them. 


An important prat of healing is sharing - so let’s hear your experience.  Post below!

Thoughts of Suicide

Suicide.


After leaving Magee Rehabilitation Hospital, but still in early recovery, the thought hit me often - at least once a week.  Life wasn’t just hard, it didn’t make any sense.  I was a failure - couldn’t do anything right.  I was supposed to have died, and I even failed at that.


God, if there is such a thing, had spared my life in some dark divine joke - to sit around, crack open a can of beer, and laugh with the angels while watching the human sitcom. 


These were dark moods when they hit me.  Scary.  I remember standing in the kitchen, holding a knife, poking my finger to draw a bit of blood - yes, it was sharp - contemplating my vein, grayish blue against the underside of my wrist.  It wouldn’t be hard.


It hadn’t been a particularly bad day - same bullshit, different day - I just wasn’t seeing a point.  Nothing I did seemed to get better…I had wanted to be so much in life, but was now permanently held back by my busted brain.  My previous talents were good, I had been good - better than good.  I had been able to do things and was going places, but now I was simply not moving.  Stuck in nowhere town Pennsylvania.  My dreams had been wiped out because of one damned moment.  It wasn’t fair.  Life wasn’t fair.

In death all things are fair.

The knife was tempting, easy, in my hands - it wouldn’t hurt for long.

I’m not sure why I didn’t commit suicide.  No-one came in to save me - there wasn’t some Godly revelation - I just put down the knife, shook my head and walked away, quietly crying.  My mind still returns to that moment - why didn’t I do it?  Could I have avoided some of the pain that was yet to come - pain that I’m certain is still in my future.


Don’t get me wrong, I am glad I didn’t commit suicide that afternoon or any other afternoon.  Life has moved on and life has been beautiful and exciting while also drab and  painful.  Life has been, well, life.  More than anything, life has been an experience, and its experience that I would need to give-up.  Experience is what keeps what we see interesting and new, and its these experiences that I hope we can share.

If anyone is currently dealing with questions of suicide, all I can say is - Don’t do it.  I have no real reason - I can’t guarantee that Life will get better, but what I can guarantee is that there are small surprising pleasures that pop in and out - the taste of ice-cream on a hot day, the texture of a cat rubbing her head against your shin, joy when your football team beats the New England Patriots in a playoff game (sorry Patriot fans) - these are all things that happen and then stop.   In the same way, painful events are something that happen and then stop.  It’s the memories that we focus on that will not stop - be they joyful or painful.  Life happens, and we can remember the pleasures or focus on the pain, either way it will end one day, and once its over, you can’t experience either.

This blog entry got a little off topic - the initial intent was just to write the memory, but it took a sharp turn into commentary because I know thoughts of suicide are a common part of recovery.  Let’s not jump around it - if you’re recovering from TBI now, you’ve probably had these thoughts.  All I can say is that what you choose to do is your choice.  TBI happened and you lived.  Take it as a blessing or wallow in it as a curse - both are true at times, but if you make a choice to end your life, there are no more choices.

This topic is scary, but important to recognize.  I’m sure I’ll touch on it again in the future, but I would appreciate some thoughts to build on.  Please comment and if you feel comfortable, share your own stories. 

The Feeding Tube

With so many stronger memories that seem to be riddled with meaning, I’m not sure why this one remains so vivid, but it does bring a smile…

When I first returned to awareness, my mouth was wired shut and I had a tube sticking out of my belly - it was through this tube that I was fed.  I don’t remember not being able to communicate, but I’m sure I was severely limited as I don’t see any reason to feed me directly to my belly unless my mouth was wired. - you can see the feeding in the below pic - but that’s not what I remember.






What I do remember is being fascinated with this piece of medical technology, and being proud of my tube - showing it off in the way a ten year old boy displays the grotesque but harmless scrape scrape he suffered.


I also remember the tube being removed.  As I first returned to awareness, the tube was present, and when it was removed, I remember expecting to need to return to the operating room, or at least go under some sort of anesthesia.  Instead, two of my favorite nurses entered the room, one held me down, the other pulled on the tube, and out it came - accompanied by a satisfying “Pop”.

That was it - even at the time I was flabbergasted by the absurdity and simplicity of the procedure - tug the tub and it pops out.  I still had to drink my meals, but finally there was a sense of taste that came with the eating process.

A strange memory, but one I’m glad to have.

Memory of a Sensation

I’m lying on my side at Magee Rehabilitation Hospital in Philadelphia.  This isn’t long after my memory has started to return, and I’m beginning to recognize there are aspects about my being that have gone through some pretty major changes - short bouts of depression would wash over me.  Confusion was the most consistent emotion, and the fact that this confusion was so prominent was what made the most sense.

Everything had changed.  I didn’t remember it changing, didn’t choose to go through it, couldn’t even really point to the event that caused it - I knew I had been in a car accident, but the accident was completely wiped from my mind.  I just slowly woke over the course of a month, and wasn’t what I worked my life to become.  What’s more, I didn’t have a clear idea of what or who this new self meant.  I was just different - was I even Lethan anymore?

That question hit me hard - was I Lethan?  There were many times when I settled into that question and couldn’t get away from it.


But in this scene, as mentioned above, I’m lying on my side at Magee Rehabilitation Hospital.   This barrage of difficult and painful questions is torturing my mind and my spirit is low.  I’m ready to give up.  I’m just tired, and I’m ready.

And I sense something come into my room.  Though the window.  I’m on the 5th floor, and the windows barred, so I know nothing is actually coming in, but something comes in, moves over to my back, reaches out, touches me - its not a physical hand touching, but it is physical - a physical nothing.  And I sense this essence move into my body, filling me like river filling an empty quarry - and I feel…

Love?

Hope?

A future?


That’s it, a future, a next step - not a solution, but directions to a path that I’ve been called on to travel.

Just like that I feel this thing remove itself from my body - I feel a physical departure and it seeps out through my fingers, and that sense of direction is gone, but the memory of it remains.  And I remember that moment, so I didn’t give up.


I discuss this moment in storytelling, and I think its an important moment to return to because of that profound memory of feeling a sense of direction which kept me going.


What was it that touched me?  I won’t rattle on about my philosophies here - there are other entries for that.  All I will say is that it was an event, and I do remember it, and I’m still trying to pick out the right path that was suggested in that moment…its just a memory of a sensation, so the details are tricky to pick out, but knowing that path exists motivates me to keep searching.

Reunion with Friends

A short memory - the summer before my accident, I attended a select artistic camp called Pennsylvania’s Governor’s School for the Arts.  The experience was wonderful, and I formed dozens of friendships that we swore would never end, but all eventually dissolved as the inevitable reality of growing up occurred.  At the time of my accident, however, the friendships were still strong and the friends connected from various spots in Pennsylvania and made a trip to see me in Philadelphia.


What I remember most is the pure joy at seeing everyone.  My life had changed, but that didn’t mean everything from the past was lost.  Seeing my friends from Governor’s School helped me to realize that.  They came to visit me in the hospital, and I remember filling the lounge where we gathered with laughter and smiles.  They all felt sad for my situation, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t bask in the joy of reunion.


What i take from this memory is the refusal to be depressed.  I did have depression at many times in my recovery, but I’m a performer so I didn’t want to show this - a sort of “fake it till you make it” philosophy.  While some of my positive attitude was falsely put on, by saying I was doing okay helped to convince my body that I was okay.

I don’t mean to sound overly optimistic or to belittle pain, but with this entry I want to encourage a smile.  As I write this, I am torn because these words do seem trite or cliché, but I also remember that by saying I’m getting better and I’m going to work through this, I made those statements a reality.  A positive attitude and insistence on smiling exploded any luck I had into an even fuller recovery.

Change

This entry takes a slight departure from the usual posting in that I’m going to write a little about what’s going on now in my life, as opposed to the past, yet the topic is still relevant when talking about TBI.


We are looking at change.

I have been living and working in South Korea for the past several years, and I am fortunate to be in a relationship with an amazing Russian woman, Anna, who I met here.  We have lived together for the past year, but recently (last Sunday) she had to return to Russia for financial reasons.  Our relationship has stayed strong and we will reunite and teach in China after I finish my current contract, but this situation has caused a big change.  I recognize this change is not terribly drastic - there are countless changes that have a far deeper effect on a person - but I find it interesting how this change makes me think on my time in early recovery from Brain Injury.

As we tumble like a rock through the avalanche of existence, we are inevitably going to be chipped and scratched along the way - events that change our surface, our very shape - yet we retain the essence of self.  As events hit, they can have a monumental effect on how one lives his or her life, and often these impacts seem negative, but by holding onto the essential truth of self-identity, one can change what begins as a negative experience and make it positive.


Before my accident, I had my life plan - I was going to be an actor.  I was good, probably not as good as I thought I was, but I had experience and was eager to learn more.  In my all the communities I was a part of, I was “Lethan the Actor”.  After my accident, however, I fell out of the theatre - my passion was drained and my self-criticism was rampant.  This twisted me in some weird ways - I remembered who I had been as an actor, and I wanted the consistency in self-identity, but I also wasn’t feeling committed to the stage.

This struggle with identity, though usually quiet, continued for years - my mind trying to squeeze back into the actor’s outfit, but never finding the right fit.  I knew I wanted something to do with performing, but was also learning that being an actor wasn’t the right path.  To deal with this dilemma, I pushed myself to open up my options, exploring Anthropology, Political Science, Music Theory, Creative Writing, Philosophy - and eventually discovering Storytelling.  Some may say that Storytelling is just like acting - that I never really left the stage - but I disagree.  Both are performance arts, but there is a significant difference in the delivery and composition and I could outline these differences in an essay, but I really don’t think that’s important here.  What is important is that I left myself open to change, and I’m grateful that the change has been in my life.  If I hadn’t had my brain injury, its possible that I would have remained on the actor’s path and may have even been successful - at times I still regret not feeling drawn to that path - but the life I remained open to gives me pride as a storyteller and I am thrilled to be exploring this less known art and seeing what I can make of it.

Bringing it back to my current change, life has caused my girlfriend and I to live a few countries apart.  This is not an easy separation and I am eager to be with her again, but my goal is to make the most out of this change.  The situation has changed, now its my job is to discover how I can make the most out of it.  That is the goal with any change - recognizing and embracing changes in situation that make us stronger and allow us to reach our fullest potential.  The accident disrupted my world, and I will never say the accident was a good thing, but by accepting change a unknown world opened up to me, and I am grateful for the life that came to me.

Now with pictures

As you can see from the top of this page, I have been fortunate to have some pictures from my recovery that I am able to upload.  I will share these pics gradually as I am able to meditate and reflect on the memories and emotions they bring up.  Already these pictures have hit me in some unexpected ways, and I will be interested to hear your thoughts.

The on picture I have uploaded so far - the picture at the top of the page - is my sister comforting me in Geisinger Medical Center, the first hospital I recovered in.  More thoughts to come.

Flirtatious Romance

There was a strange romance while I was in the hospital - or at least a hint of a romance that was not actually in the hospital, but it occurred while I was there.  It began prior to my accident, I had been hanging out - casually dating - a girl at the school in the district next to mine - an innocent flirtation more than anything.


As it happened, her mother was one of my nurses at my first hospital - though I don’t remember this part of my recovery - and once I was in Magee Rehabilitation, I don’t remember who initiated it, but the flirtation continued and we would talk on the phone almost every night.  I remember having feelings for her, but at the same time not caring - I think I thought of her as my girlfriend, though we never proclaimed it as such, and I felt no real attachment.

As I returned from the hospital, I remember her coming to my house, sitting next to me on my futon bed as we just sat there and talked - the bedroom doors open for a chaperoned visit.  Still in my neck brace and my face stuck in a confused clown’s smile, I tried to hold her hand, and she wasn’t sure about that, so she pulled her hand away, and that was okay.


And its a strange memory because I don’t remember any more than that - I think she left my house soon after - but that image is in my mind, like i’m watching it through the open kitchen door - sitting on the red futon, me smiling, she uncomfortable, music playing, an uncertain laugh from both of us.

After that, she disappears from any memory - I don’t know her thoughts or how she felt, and I sometimes wonder what they were.  The strange thing is that I never recall feeling any loss as she disappeared.  There were a few moments in my mind when I recall wondering about her, wishing we could be a couple, but those were just momentary slight depressions, quickly dissipating when something else caused a distraction.  I think, more than anything, I juts wanted to be a normal teenage boy, and having a girlfriend seemed something that would be normal.

Despite her quickly vanishing from my life when I returned from the hospital, our romance was a boon in my recovery.  While it existed, being able to talk and share in a coquettish, fantasy romance granted a hint of normalcy as I healed.

She and I didn’t stay in touch - we attended the same university, and I remember passing her as I left a class, a quick “Hey…” and moving on.  I have no idea where she is now, but I wish her all the best, wherever she may be.  Life moves on, and though she was but a glimpse in mine, I appreciate having that time as a memory.

For me, this brings to light the importance of every interaction.  While by no means monumental in my recovery, she was a positive part of it, and its little bits like this might be the nudge that encourages one to ignore the statistics, defy the odds, and just get better.

That’s my memory, but do you have any memories of small interactions that have been a positive nudge in your life?  Please share in the comments.

My Job in Recovery

I remember being afraid of failing to get better.  What I think is interesting about the memory is that it wasn’t so much a fear of not getting better but a fear of failing - failing to get better.

From the beginning, my recovery surpassed expectations - my healing and commitment to the process was widely praised.  The pressure to get better was on - I was expected to continue this unusually fast recovery or else I would fail the people around me.  It’s important to note that absolutely nobody intentionally put that pressure on me - I received the perfunctory better health encouragements - that I’d be “better in no time” or “back to my old self”, and I’m sure they were not intended to make anything more stressful, but I felt the stress of expectations.  It was my job - or even my duty - to heal and make these motivational comments reality.


Simultaneously, the mediocrity of the tasks that got praise was frustrating - looking back I recognize that the mental repairs and adaptations my brain was making were remarkable, but at the time if felt like mocking praise.  I remember questioning, “Is this all I can do now?  This is what’s getting applause?  I used to do really great things!  Now I’m reduced to…eating with a spoon on my own…working through elementary math calculations…putting one foot in front of the other.  Why are my ‘great achievements’ so damnably trite.”  Reflecting on this attitude from the present time, I feel those thoughts were somewhat pretentious - many survivors have difficulty with such tasks, yet I was able to do all these relatively quickly.  That is amazing, and I know that now.  Fortune or the Fates or Love (see a previous entry) or what have you allowed me to move ahead in my recovery, yet still I cursed the praise while urning for more.  This is a part of recovery that many survivors may not experience, or maybe people do feel the same thing or some variation of this.  Please share below (comments).

What ever the case, I pushed my body - insisted that I would not accept what I was “supposed to do” as an applaudable accomplishment. I had a job - to recover - and damnit, I was going to do it, whatever that meant.  Do I think it was good to have this attitude?  I really don’t know.  It might have convinced my mind and body to heal, but I know it brought out a lot of self-anger.  A truth of me is that I’m never fully happy where I am - always want more of myself and more recognition.  That truth was present as I recovered, and it may have pushed me to do more than I was expected to do.  Again, please share your thoughts on this.


The other side of this situation is that I’ve often heard that happiness if found by being at peace with where you are.  Being at peace with who you are.  Happiness is striving to achieve what is possible, but finding contentment wherever that takes you.  My discontent brought a lot of pain to myself and those around me.  It was only because I am fortunate to be surrounded by such love that most of these relationships have remained.


Were my self-expectations good for my recovery or bad for my social interactions?  Were they both?  How?  I would appreciate your thoughts on the topic - share some of your own stories about your own self-expectations.