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.
Showing posts with label Memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Memories. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 25, 2016
Thursday, April 7, 2016
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.
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.
Thursday, March 17, 2016
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.
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.
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 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 |
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.
Tuesday, February 9, 2016
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.
Thursday, January 28, 2016
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
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.
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.
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.
Friday, January 22, 2016
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
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.
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.
Monday, January 18, 2016
Always there...
I remember my mother sitting in my hospital room at Magee Rehabilitation, in her chair that was on the left side of the bed. She was always there - simply sitting and waiting. Encouraging me, listening to me, checking in on me.
She had taken time off work to be with me and moved herself to Philadelphia, staying with friends and at shelters so she could spend almost every day at the hospital. She was a constant comfort and frustration, and this duality created a strange mix of emotions - there were many times I would feel angry or trapped by her insistence of being there for everything, but simultaneously safety with her presence.
I recognize that having the privilege of a mother being constantly there is something most TBI survivors cannot have, and in some ways I don’t know that it was always a good thing - perhaps building up some co-dependency - but I also recognize that my recovery would have been drastically different without her there. Her insistence of physically showing that her love was always there inspired me to improve, even when that inspiration came from a desire to have more time away from her.
Blessings tend to comes in a mixed-up muddle of ways, and my the dedication of both my parents, but in this case my mother, was certainly a blessing.
She had taken time off work to be with me and moved herself to Philadelphia, staying with friends and at shelters so she could spend almost every day at the hospital. She was a constant comfort and frustration, and this duality created a strange mix of emotions - there were many times I would feel angry or trapped by her insistence of being there for everything, but simultaneously safety with her presence.
I recognize that having the privilege of a mother being constantly there is something most TBI survivors cannot have, and in some ways I don’t know that it was always a good thing - perhaps building up some co-dependency - but I also recognize that my recovery would have been drastically different without her there. Her insistence of physically showing that her love was always there inspired me to improve, even when that inspiration came from a desire to have more time away from her.
Blessings tend to comes in a mixed-up muddle of ways, and my the dedication of both my parents, but in this case my mother, was certainly a blessing.
Thursday, January 14, 2016
A Good Memory from Magee Rehabilitation
Morgan decided that he was by brother from another mother - This was joyfully proclaimed every time that he saw me and I gladly accepted this kinship.
A black man who spoke and moved with the air of a street smart Philadelphia native, Morgan quickly made every entrance and exit when on duty, but when he was there, he made sure any room he visited was filled with smiles. It was his genuine care that I most remember. This seemed more than a job, for he was eager to share his infectious good energy while making his rounds.
If I was feeling angry at one of my therapy sessions, he would kneel beside my wheelchair - like the coach in an inspirational sports movie he was getting on my level, listening to the situation, then saying just a few words that let me know ‘This too will pass.” What was most important was that he listened. He didn’t need to, it wasn’t part of his job - his job was to make sure I was given my medication and stayed safe - being kind was expected, but Morgan stepped beyond that by sharing himself as a friend.
It was this sort of care that kept me going at my rehabilitation hospital - made me want to continue my recovery. I didn’t just want to live, but to Enjoy. This pushed my body to go beyond just what it was “supposed to do” - not just accept the state of things as they are and make the most out of everything.
As I write this, I recognize how important this was for my recovery. Gaining hope and laughter from interactions with other people made me excited to continue. Morgan, and those like him, let me know that I wasn’t living because I was supposed to, but because I would get back to life and to get the party started!
A black man who spoke and moved with the air of a street smart Philadelphia native, Morgan quickly made every entrance and exit when on duty, but when he was there, he made sure any room he visited was filled with smiles. It was his genuine care that I most remember. This seemed more than a job, for he was eager to share his infectious good energy while making his rounds.
If I was feeling angry at one of my therapy sessions, he would kneel beside my wheelchair - like the coach in an inspirational sports movie he was getting on my level, listening to the situation, then saying just a few words that let me know ‘This too will pass.” What was most important was that he listened. He didn’t need to, it wasn’t part of his job - his job was to make sure I was given my medication and stayed safe - being kind was expected, but Morgan stepped beyond that by sharing himself as a friend.
It was this sort of care that kept me going at my rehabilitation hospital - made me want to continue my recovery. I didn’t just want to live, but to Enjoy. This pushed my body to go beyond just what it was “supposed to do” - not just accept the state of things as they are and make the most out of everything.
As I write this, I recognize how important this was for my recovery. Gaining hope and laughter from interactions with other people made me excited to continue. Morgan, and those like him, let me know that I wasn’t living because I was supposed to, but because I would get back to life and to get the party started!
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
My Recreational Therapist
One of the purposes of this blog is to share memories I have from my recovery experience, so here's the first of those:
I remember Jeff, my recreational therapist. Initially, I found his job title slightly absurd - a therapist to teach me how to play? - but as my mind began to come together, I remember feeling close to him.
We were both fans of Phish and the Grateful Dead - he was more of a Grateful Dead fan and me more Phish, but we connected with that. I don’t remember sharing many stories - he was a far more experienced concert goer that I - but I do remember feeling relieved that he understood where I was coming from.
The first time I walked outside was a huge step for me. It was with Jeff and his beautiful assistant Gena, in downtown Philadelphia. The broken, grey concrete sidewalk guiding my first steps away from the hospital. The smoggy city air felt amazing - this was the first exposure to sunlight in more than a month, and the warm rays touched my skin as a crisp fall breeze bit my cheeks. I looked to the tops off the buildings - the sky was a perfect baby blue, and the shadows blanketed the sidewalk. We turned a corner, stepping out of the shadows and sun beat down with a joyous blaze. I had a to squint and laughed at nothing and everything.
Beginning with slow, heavily monitored steppes, my excitement soon pushed me to walk at a quicker, if slightly choppy, pace. My feet still dragged and landed with flat steps, but I was stepping without assistance and away from constraints of the hospital. The urge to run welled inside me - not to run away but run in celebration - but this wouldn’t be helpful to the situation, so I quelled that desire. Don’t do more than what is allowed, simply take each step as it arrives. Take your time.
Remembering sensations in my body, a nostalgic smile covered my face and I had to be brought back to the present by Jeff’s hand on my arm - don’t go too fast - wait for the walk sign to cross the street.
And I remember seeing the Franklin Institute - it is only a few blocks away from the hospital, so we would walk there and return - and I remember seeing the lawns, yellowed by the season, and the trees almost barren but with the remaining red and gold leaves clinging to the branches, refusing to be a victim of the wind. I want to say that I felt a kinship with those leaves, but that’s too metaphorical and I’m sure I didn’t recognize that at the time - but the colors not lit by the sterile hospital lights were amazing.
I remember Jeff, my recreational therapist. Initially, I found his job title slightly absurd - a therapist to teach me how to play? - but as my mind began to come together, I remember feeling close to him.
We were both fans of Phish and the Grateful Dead - he was more of a Grateful Dead fan and me more Phish, but we connected with that. I don’t remember sharing many stories - he was a far more experienced concert goer that I - but I do remember feeling relieved that he understood where I was coming from.
The first time I walked outside was a huge step for me. It was with Jeff and his beautiful assistant Gena, in downtown Philadelphia. The broken, grey concrete sidewalk guiding my first steps away from the hospital. The smoggy city air felt amazing - this was the first exposure to sunlight in more than a month, and the warm rays touched my skin as a crisp fall breeze bit my cheeks. I looked to the tops off the buildings - the sky was a perfect baby blue, and the shadows blanketed the sidewalk. We turned a corner, stepping out of the shadows and sun beat down with a joyous blaze. I had a to squint and laughed at nothing and everything.
Beginning with slow, heavily monitored steppes, my excitement soon pushed me to walk at a quicker, if slightly choppy, pace. My feet still dragged and landed with flat steps, but I was stepping without assistance and away from constraints of the hospital. The urge to run welled inside me - not to run away but run in celebration - but this wouldn’t be helpful to the situation, so I quelled that desire. Don’t do more than what is allowed, simply take each step as it arrives. Take your time.
Remembering sensations in my body, a nostalgic smile covered my face and I had to be brought back to the present by Jeff’s hand on my arm - don’t go too fast - wait for the walk sign to cross the street.
And I remember seeing the Franklin Institute - it is only a few blocks away from the hospital, so we would walk there and return - and I remember seeing the lawns, yellowed by the season, and the trees almost barren but with the remaining red and gold leaves clinging to the branches, refusing to be a victim of the wind. I want to say that I felt a kinship with those leaves, but that’s too metaphorical and I’m sure I didn’t recognize that at the time - but the colors not lit by the sterile hospital lights were amazing.
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