Watching Me

U of O Lisa, myself, and Kay

My parents were a fixture at my track meets, and mom once told a newspaper journalist, that she and dad and would travel anywhere to watch me, even if I were playing marbles.  In high school, dad volunteered as a timer, while my mom sat in the stands, smartly dressed, I'm sure.  Back then, every runner was timed individually with a stop watch, and that timer was usually a volunteer.  Dad always asked to time later places, like 5th or 6th, to ensure there was no conflict of interest.  I don't remember ever talking to him on the Flathead track after my race, but I knew he was there.  

When I quit competing, I thought they were done watching me, but they weren't.  They decided if they couldn't watch me race, they would watch me coach. My 1st track job came when we were living in a little dairy town in Washington state, up close to the boarder. Because I had a current CA credential, which I never used because of the all encompassing head injury, I didn't have to do much to be able to teach in Washington. After meeting the state's history requirements, I began substitute teaching.

I always assumed I'd teach in my own classroom, before I'd coach, especially because of my head trauma, but the coaching opportunity came 1st.

A high school track job was open, and the mother of my daughter's friend, who also coached club volleyball, suggested I apply for it.  I was granted an interview with the head coach, and when we met he was wearing an Oregon Duck cap.  Score 1 point for me, I thought, but then I had to convince him I could coach, even though I couldn't run, jump, or hurdle.

That wasn't his concern, though, as he went on to tell me most coaches can't demonstrate.  He was concerned, though, that with my background as a successful Duck track athlete, my expectations would be too high for his young athletes. I ensured him that wouldn't be the case. What did I know, anyway?  I had never coached.

I was hired, and I had 2 great years coaching the Lions, before moving to Boise.

Coincident #1 the 1st coaching job was at a school with the same team colors as the U of O Ducks

My next coaching job was in Boise.  My daughter ran high school track, and I had gotten to know one of her coaches.  The first time I met him, he told me she'd be a state champion, and he was right.   Then she graduated, and her mentor changed schools.  His new high school was actually Boise's 1st high school and right down the street from where I taught 5th grade. He e-mailed me at my school, and simply asked if I was interested in coaching with him, and I said yes.  No, I didn't consider that I knew nothing about the triple jump.  When I was in high school, girls weren't allowed to triple jump as it was thought to damage female reproductive parts.  I'd figure it out.

Coincident #2  The 2nd coaching job team mascot was the Braves; the mascot of the high school where my records still stand

I now coach at the junior high, where I went to school.  It's called a middle school, now, but we still coach only 8th and 9th grade.  Please take this into account:

1. We have close to 150 athletes each season 
2. The majority of kids have never hurdled before
3. We coach 3, 20 minute sessions (read: Learn hurdling in 20 minutes!) 
4. I can't show them anything
5. The track is asphalt

You can now be impressed with myself, and the 6 other coaches who are doing one of two things with each kid.

1. Prepare them for high school track
2. Ensure that all kids have a rewarding experience, even if they never compete again

If you're wondering why I was hired, I'm sure you're not alone, but I know my hurdlers get to high school well prepared.  Sure, I'd rather coach high school, of even college athletes, but I love these kids' joie de vivre.

And yes, mom still comes to the big meet of the season, to watch me coach.

My Two Selves- Again

Somehow the original post with this title was deleted during my travel between Word and Blogger,  which disappoints me because I thought it was pretty good; well, at least OK.

Here was that post:

I consider myself two selves; there's my brain self, that is the boss of my entire body, and, my physical self. The brain self has lots of things to operate, like breathing, regulation of body temp, the immune system, and the organs inside the body. I’ve only mentioned a few, but you get the point. Then, there is my physical self that includes bones, muscles, nerves; the apparatus that makes me move. But only part of my brain self is in charge of sending messages to my entire physical self.

Looking back on my recovery, I sometimes wonder why my physical self did not make the same level of recovery my brain self did. But maybe I am sadly mistaken. Some people are certain my physical self has come further than my brain.  But it was my injury so I believe I have the last word.

I feel my brain is miles ahead.  Yes, I’ll say it again; my brain functions better than my body even though I have short term memory issues, and slower processing speed.  My equilibrium really sucks too. On the plus side, my brain doesn’t hurt, it only gets tired.

When I crashed, I hit my head really hard, so my brain self was in tough shape. The unhurt parts rallied and were quick to prioritize, so I stayed alive, which I am very grateful for. 

But after the critical issues were taken care of, what was left of my brain self looked over my entire body and saw there were no motor skills in the right hemisphere (that’s fancy for right side.) My brain knew it had to reassign those jobs, to its unhurt parts. But it realized that it couldn’t tackle the physical issues alone, it was going to need help.

The aid came from my incredible physical therapist, Kyle, at the hospital.  He actually moved my limbs and such, so that new brain parts could, in essence, learn to send the proper messages.  His job was to teach the inexperienced brain parts, how to get my limbs working again.  What was left of my brain self, worked together with Kyle-The-Amazing, long and hard, but I was left with a physical self that remains compromised.  I limp, my left eye wanders (if you look close you can see it’s actually both eyes,) and my stability, while on my feet, is always questionable. The right hemisphere remains weaker, and slower, but I believe my brain self did the best it could.  The hardest deficit to accept is my inability to run.  Initially, I thought I could train myself to at least jog, but there is a definite hitch in my get along and the delay between my brain and necessary parts will always be there.

This is where I say, yes, I’m luck to still be alive.  And luckier still, to have weathered the storm with enough of my old self, to combine with my new self, so that the person here today, is A OK.  

The R Word, and Recall

As a child, the word retard was common, but in 1991 I suffered a traumatic brain injury, and I really saw it for what it was; demeaning.  When my kids got to be school aged, they began to hear other kids use the word. I explained to them, rather loudly, that it wasn’t a good word, and it wouldn't be allowed in our house, dang it! Stabbing my chest, I asked if they wanted people to refer to me as retarded.  

But you’re not! They said.

Cht, Cht, Cht, (that means WAIT A MINUTE!) let me finish!  I replied.  (Side note: I still can’t be interrupted mid-story and be expected to recall what I was talking about, unless time is given.)

Here’s the timeline on that situation:

Pre 1991 - After interruption, I simply returned to the right place in the right story

1991- Crash!   Traumatic Brain Injury sustained

Post TBI - After interruption, I couldn’t remember the story, or where I stopped 

Post, Post TBI - After interruption, I needed prompts to get back to the right story       and restart it in the right place

Currently - After interruption, I can remember the story, and pick it up where left off but

must be given extra time

I said some people would consider me retarded because of my limp and wandering eye.  And, I wanted to add, Because of mom's slow, mental processing speed, (which is medium on a good day) but they were too young to understand. Instead, I told them, You guys know I don’t always have the right words to say what I want.  

They must have gotten it, though, because I didn’t hear the R word again, at least not that I remember.

Sisters

 

My big sister and I shared a big, brass bed, until I finished elementary school. By today’s standards it wasn’t very big, but we fit into it nicely. Tracing an imaginary line between brass poles at each end of the bed she showed me the line I was not to cross...ever.  Two school years ahead of me, she was very much the BIG Sister.

One day, while walking home from school in the middle of a storm, she saved my life by pulling me back to street level. Whether I really would have blown away, like in the Wizard of Oz, I'm not sure. But she said I, ... easily coulda. A powerful gust of wind had picked me up, and I was literally flying across Main Street! She caught me, pulled me back to earth, and then hustled me into Torbert’s. 

Torbert's was a store, and I don't remember what it's primary business was. Maybe it sold housewares, hardware, or pharmaceuticals on the 1st floor, but the 2nd floor was entirely toys. It was also one of those stores where you could buy those plastic rain bonnets elderly women used to cover hair, after it's just been done. Her plan was to make me wear one, even though she wasn't, and we were just blocks from our house. The purchase went quickly, but we didn't even go up to see the toys! She wrestled the opaque, plastic baggie over my already rain soaked head, fastened it tightly under my chin, and we continued home.

I learned a lot from her because she told me how do the things she did; the things I couldn't. For example, I had trouble falling asleep. Sometimes, I lay awake in the dark, for what felt like an eternity.  But I know she didn’t have that trouble, because I could hear her rhythmic, deep sleep-breathing within moments of hopping into bed. I saw it each night, so I knew she could do it (fall asleep) so I asked her to tell me how she fell asleep, so seemingly easy.

It became my constant query: How do you go to sleep?

Many nights, she simply yawned and rolled away from me.  After pulling the blanket tighter, she'd say I’ll tell ya tomorrow, maybe, ‘cause I’m tired. Then, facing away from me, she would fall asleep, leaving me alone in the dark, again.

If it didn’t go like that, she’d say to me, in a creepy voice, God… is gonna GET you!  We were Catholic, and even went to Catholic school, so that was a really scary threat. But, before I could even ask her, What sins have I committed to require such harsh warning? she would turn away and check out, literally.  She was asleep before her head hit the flat, down-filled pillow of our childhood.

Good memories? I have those too, but I’m tired now, so maybe tomorrow. 

Bookstore Cowboy

Through the book store, past the magazines,

Then into the coffee shop, I will myself away from all

The print that surrounds me and my mom follows and I sense

That she has to fight the same urge, because she loves words like

Me but we just came for coffee, not our shared pleasure of text.  The

People are sittin’ alone, or with a ma, or a pa, or a friend and most cradle a book,

Or a magazine, or the newspaper and a cup too, and a few just whisper, in library voices

I notice him right from the get-go, the cowboy,

Who is alone, against the wall, his battered classic dark

Felt hat sets low, and the boots are so not new they fit like

Another layer of skin and a heavier, weathered, lined Levi jacket

Encases the solid man, so obviously spiffed up for town, and coffee and

Stores, and others.  His wranglers are crisp clean, his shirt pressed, and calloused hands

Are scrubbed pink, they hold the book he reads too close to his strong face and I am watching

My mother muses, between bites of treat and sucking her straw and

She wants to know exactly what he’s reading. But the title, I can’t see any

More than she can.  I think maybe if I set my eyes just right, and the lights shine

Just so, I might see the title of that book, so I try.  I narrow my eyes, tilt my head and wait but

We're too far, the light's unchanging, the label stubborn and we’ll never know the book's title

We agree, that cowboys read too and I figure it’s a good book, one I’d like too

‘Cause moments later I see him reach into a pocket for what could be a ‘kerchief,

But it’s just a neatly folded Kleenex.  He touches to the tip of his nose and then the corners

Of his eyes too, in a way that says he’s tearin’-up, and cryin’ for the book’s words are just too

Sad, or lonely, but just then, in a flash, I see him workin’ hard to not just laugh loud/outright

Again the cowboy is pattin’ the crisply folded tissue, at just the edges

Of his eyes, by the bridge of his nose, but his expression holds steady, as his

Eyes travel across the page and he stifles another giggle and his straight white

Teeth appear quickly, and his smile is unleashed, emerging,  but only for a moment and

Then sadness rolls over him like a dust storm on the prairie and inevitably he is feelin’ blue

We feel something we're not sure of, but know we won’t forget the cowboy in the bookstore