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.
Monday, February 29, 2016
Sunday, February 28, 2016
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.
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.
Thursday, February 25, 2016
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.
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.
Thursday, February 18, 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.
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 |
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
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
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
Friday, February 12, 2016
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
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...
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...
Tuesday, February 9, 2016
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.
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.
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.
Friday, February 5, 2016
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.
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.
Thursday, February 4, 2016
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 3, 2016
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.
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
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!
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!
Monday, February 1, 2016
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.
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.
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