Chapter 2 aftermath: the period of time after a bad and usually destructive event

            At the hospital, a plastic surgeon stitched up my son’s forehead, which shattering glass had torn apart. He quit counting sutures after taking 100.  Harrison wore his scars, with little consideration.  But, to me, they were a constant reminder of my guilt.  My brain told me it was entirely my fault that my son’s beautiful face had been mangled, and somehow I felt he would be emotionally, as well as physically, scarred forever.  

Some years later we visited a doctor, to discuss having plastic surgery done to make them less visible. That doctor said my son was still too young, and that he would need to mature before we should consider cosmetic work.  Moreover, it should be Harrison’s decision to have additional work done. 

He is now in his 20s and his scars remain.  He is a charming, caring young man, with a very free spirit.  I sometimes wonder if he would have turned out differently if we had not crashed. But, then I remind myself that I am wasting energy on those thoughts, and I force my brain elsewhere.

My young son’s forehead was a mess, but it seems I was in far worse shape.  The gash on the back of my right arm, bruises, and a cut near my left temple were the only visible injuries, but I had broken my jaw, and collarbone.  The biggest problem, although not immediately visible, was the closed head injury I had sustained when my head hit the side window.                 

          The ambulance took my baby, and the helicopter transported me, but we both ended up at the hospital in Palmdale.  My husband received word of the accident after arriving in Arizona.  I would not be joining him as planned, and our celebration would be postponed indefinitely.  On the telephone, the doc told Gary that my condition was tenuous, but to stay safe traveling home, because his son was fine, and needed his father. 

He immediately flew to LAX, and an old friend, we affectionately referred to as Jimmy-the-Greek, picked him up in an ancient sports car.  As Jimmy raced the rattletrap to Palmdale, Gary worried, not only about his wife and son, but about the tread left on the Jimmy’s tires.  Always pragmatic, Gary asked him to slow down. 

When Gary saw me I was pretty beat up, and as I yawned, my jaw slipped too easily, at an awkward angle, into a gross position.  They told him that I had sustained a massive, closed head injury, and perhaps broken my jaw.  He had already observed the jaw, and was surprised at the perhaps.  To him, the fracture had been quite evident, but he soon realized that their initial concern was to keep me alive.  

A shunt had been inserted in my skull, to relieve the pressure that was building, as my brain swelled. I was told that at the time of the accident, this procedure was fairly new.  Luck had been on my side, my husband reported, because the doctor on call was familiar with the precaution. I’m not sure if this is true, because it seems to me that they would have known to do this back in 1991.  I am certain, though, my TBI effects would have been far worse, had it not been done.

Initially, no one knew that I had also broken my collarbone.  Gary told me that, soon after the accident, he was instructed to pry my arm open. The right side of my body was hypertonic, or in a state of abnormally high tension.  My arm was contracted; fist clenched, palm up, drawn towards my body and nearly even with my shoulder.   It took all of his strength and lots of time, to get my arm open, a surly grimace on my face the entire time. An orthopedic surgeon, years later, who would tell me my collar bone had also been broken in the accident.

That surgeon was Ken Singer, a team physician at the University of Oregon, and had operated on my knee, in the early ‘80s, while I was an athlete on their track team.  Yes, I was, and am a Duck.  Some say my athletic drive, determination and competitive nature are the reason I recovered from my TBI as well as it did, and I cannot disagree.  However, I think being head injured is a condition that lasts a lifetime, and recovery is never complete.

During the knee surgery, back in my co-ed days, my heart rate fell dramatically.  It slowed to 30 beats a minute, causing Dr. Singer some anxiety.  This freak occurrence also concerned another onlooker, Rick.  He was an athletic trainer who worked with the track team, and was in the operating room observing.   We  became good friends over my years at Oregon; through rub downs, injury rehab, and time traveling to meets, we shared a lot of laughs. The connection remains today.

The car accident was in November of 1991, and I remained in the hospital until March.  That summer, we sold our house in the desert and returned to Eugene, home of the Ducks, as my husband had changed jobs.  As I write this, I realize this is not the last time I would return to familiar surroundings, teeming with happy memories, at a stressful period in my life.  But, let’s get back to Eugene.  Intense rehab would continue there, in the hospital where my heart incident occurred, and those memorable men, Doc Singer and Trainer Rick, came back into my life. 

Rick agreed to look at my only-semi-responsive right hemisphere. While exercising my compromised arm, he detected that my collar bone had once been broken. Together, we visited Doctor Singer and his x-ray showed that, yes, that bone had been broken.  No wonder my face contorted when Gary tried to straighten my arm, (at the nurses' instruction.) 

Looking back, I realize the trip to see the Doctor was more about reconnecting, than anything else. Rick realized how important it was for the Head-injured Me to rebuild my good memories.  He knew that my years of success as a Duck hurdler were near the top of that list. 

          My hypertonic right hemisphere also resulted in my toe pointing, like a ballerina, as I lay comatose. Gary outfitted me with a cheap, high top canvas tennis shoe. I wore it in my hospital bed.  It was an attempt to minimized long-term effects caused by the dorsa-flexed position of my right foot.  I think it helped a lot.

          Picture this: I lay unconscious, with an unsightly pipe in my head, one pristine high top sneaker poking from the covers, tubes entering and exiting who-knows-where on my person, with some of my nervous family members surrounding me. Then I came around.

Most do not know what emerging from a coma looks like.  Many of us have seen it happen on television, so that may be our point of reference.  We close our eyes and see this: After spending time in a coma, unattached to any monitors, and looking freshly showered, a good-looking actor, or actress, simply opens their eyes, and blinks a few times.  He, or she, appears confused for a few seconds, then they look as if they've come to an understanding.  Oh, I must have been in an accident, causing me to lapse into a coma, but now I’m awake.  

That was not my experience, however.  The way my husband explains it, I opened my eyes, after three days, but only briefly.  The next day, they may have stayed open a bit longer. Each day, I appeared awake longer than I had the day before.  The key word here is appeared. I was in no danger of dying now, but doctors could not predict my mental state.  They said I needed to respond. 

At that point, the waiting continued.  I would live, but no one knew what my mental capacity would be upon total emergence.  As they waited, and nurses cared for me, I lapsed in an out of consciousness, and continued to not respond.  The nurses, that were there to protect me, were not always vigilant. Family placed a sign above my bed warning all that entered, not to lay me down flat.  The reason was something about fluid draining into my lungs, but, after a shift change, a nurse did just that, and I ended up with pneumonia.  

Lexie's Story

Whoever survives a test, whatever it may be, must tell the story.

 That is his duty.  –Elie Weisel

Preface

It took me years to remember as much as I do. It came to me bit by bit; tiny drips to make a flood.   The story told by others, began to match my own memories. People say, It could have happened to anybody, at any time, and I nod in placid agreement.  But this didn’t happen to anybody.  This is the story about what happened to me, and the life-changing series of events that divide my life into two polar periods; before and after.  It is not meant to change how people view me or give others insight into how to better face adversity, and it has no fairy-tale conclusion that will make readers feel good.  Stories like this are just meant to be shared so I am telling mine.

Chapter One

That morning, after a silent road trip from Lancaster to Orange County, through the monotonous desert landscape, we finally reached the airport. I made the early morning journey with my husband Gary and young son, Harrison.  As my husband unloaded his baggage at the curb, I took the driver’s seat.  I recall his being upset about a situation regarding a job possibility for me.

I had recently finished work for a teaching credential, and had started the application process for a potential teaching position.  But, I had placed a job interview on the back burner so it would not interfere with a planned holiday trip to see my family in Montana.  He was not pleased that my priority was the trip, not the job, and voiced his displeasure on that morning trip to the airport. 

There probably was some exchange about meeting up later that day, but I don’t remember. As he hustled toward check-in, I eased my Volvo from the curb, and headed for the freeway.

My memories of that morning, the drive through dry, barren desert towards our home in the Antelope Valley, may be vague, but they are my memories.  Sally Jesse Rafael’s radio talk show kept me company, that I know, but I cannot pinpoint what the topic was.  For years I tried to recall the exact topic, but reasoning with myself, I asked, What does it have to do with my life right now?  My daughter, as an all-knowing, wise teenager often used that line and it made sense to me.

          The Sally Jesse Rafael talk show’s subject never did become clear.  And many details of the life shattering event that occurred, after the drive home, have never made themselves apparent either.

This is the way I choose to understand the blank spots: My brain exists above and beyond; it is separate from my self.  It makes decisions what is best for my self.   My brain sees no need for the memory of such horrific trauma.  My brain, therefore, has not revealed the traumatic part of my story.  That part comes from the memories of others, and I can only repeat what I have heard. 

At first, the account of events was just an explanation to me, and was pretty simple.  It was the reason I was in the hospital, the reason I did not remember the ordeal that brought me there, and the reason I was in such lousy shape, physically as well as mentally.  I don’t even remember asking those questions, but I guess I needed somewhere for my brain to build from.  So, the explanation went like this.  Nurses and family simply said that I had been in a car accident, and I hit my head, real hard, and that I’d get better slowly.  It’s not lost on me that his is how I explain it to others, even today. 

Then, other people wanted to know exactly what happened, and they were given the more detailed, grisly version.  It was told many times, by more than one family member and many friends. And, because I too am human, I also know that it was retold simply for its shock value; the macabre account of what happened after the airport drop-off. 

Apparently, I arrived in Lancaster, and was to pack my own bags for a flight later that day and join Gary in Arizona.  This was the meet-up that we may have discussed at the airport curb.  The plan was to watch our Alma mater’s football team, the University of Oregon Ducks, play the Arizona State Sun Devils, and celebrate the fact that I had made it through Cal State Northridge’s teaching credential program unscathed.  At some point, during that preparation, I spoke to my neighbor on the phone about my son’s fussiness. 

During a short conversation with my neighbor, I told her I was going to drop off a job application at the school district office, and would take my cranky baby, hoping he might nap.  Packing up a baby was not unusual since I was a stay-at-home, going-to-school mom, and my kids were constantly in-tow. The job app was for the job that would interfere with our holiday plans, so I guess Gary’s unhappiness had goaded me into submitting it after all. 

I hoped the car ride might lull my crabby toddler to sleep and he’d get the nap he desperately needed.  After securing him in his car seat, placed correctly, I might add, in the center of the back seat, we headed towards the district office.  The position of his car seat will make the difference between his being alive today, and not, and those I’m a good mother feelings could surface here, but don’t.  

Since years have passed since I was in that high desert community, I can only picture avenues indicated by the letters of the alphabet, and the perpendicular streets being numbered.  The accident occurred on the corner of Avenue I and 70^th Street West.  I know this because it was in the paper, along with a picture of my wrecked car.  There is a stop sign at the intersection, and the question remains:  Did I stop, and study the road for on-coming traffic or did I role into the intersection, perhaps turned around, attending to me unhappy child?  And, if I did stop and look, did I decide to cross, unaware of how fast the truck barreling towards me, was traveling?

          My lawyer-brother from Oregon was asked, or maybe he offered, to come check things out.  His investigation verified that, yes indeed, it was my fault.  My Volvo had appeared from behind some bushes, in front of a truck hauling down a highway with a 45 mile per hour speed limit. Truck had the right of way.  There’s also the story, again I have no personal memory, of an officer visiting the hospital, with the intention of serving a warrant.  But, I was still in a coma!  I guess it determined that I was just a frazzled housewife with an unruly toddler, who made a very bad mistake.  It was a boo-boo that would change my life indefinitely, and affected the lives of my friends and family too.

          The actual accident report remained filed away for years.  It moved with me from California, to Oregon, to Washington, to Idaho, where I began writing this, and then to Montana, where I now live.  The narrative of events that day lived in file labeled accident gathering dust.  It wasn’t until I started to write this, that I actually read it for the first time. 

That must have been hard, a friend ventured.  But it wasn’t difficult. It was as if the article was about some stranger’s car wreck. I was out of it for a long time, and regained my mental capacity slowly.  Also, as many people who have suffered trauma to the brain will attest to life a different person all together. 

          The report tells me that a witness named Curt says he …heard a big bang…I saw the pickup truck in the air and I saw the Volvo in the air…  He continued, telling the investigator No, I didn’t know which way they were going at all…But Dave, the one who saw the accident, knew exactly how they were coming.  A passenger in the truck that hit us told Curt, who then told the investigator, their vehicle had been running about 50 mph. Even though I have never met Curt, I feel a connection with him, as I read his words.

He said, what I think that happened is she thought she was on 60^th where there the 4-way stop was.  I believe she fully felt that there was a 4-way stop here.  Because I don’t think she was…she --- I just think she was aware enough to know…

          Charles, another witness who also was close by, said he heard some brakes, and I looked up and it looked like the wagon was stopped in the middle of the road or it was crossing the road and then the truck hit it and it went up and I heard this crash, and the car went up in the air.  The truck spun around 180 degrees, and the car went up onto a bank and slammed on its right side and bounced back up.

          After our crashed cars settled, Charles first ran to the driver of the truck, and then to our car.  At my car the men heard crying and went first to my son, and saw that his foot was pinned between the car seat, and door.  Charles yelled for a crow bar, and was able to pry the door off my son’s tiny foot, and extract him from the mess.  Somebody named Ken took my baby, and cleared his airway, as he was choking on his own blood.  Charles then hollered for a fire extinguisher as smoke was coming from under the dash.  His initial assessment of me was that I had a neck injury, some type of jaw injury, maybe a broken rib… a puncture under the right arm.  His appraisal was near perfect, but the neck injury turned out to be the head injury that will haunt me forever.

          After struggling with my seat belt, Charles and Dave pulled me from the car and propped me on my side, away from the wreckage.  Then, another shout for a tool brought a cable cutter, which cut the battery cable, and the smoke under the dashboard subsided.

          Charles shared with the investigator that it was Dave who saw the accident.  Dave, he said, told me that the lady didn’t stop at the sign.  Reading further into the statement, Charles (whom I’ve never met either) also became an unsung hero to me.  He apparently was emotional, and although the investigator told him that the information he was providing was not critical to his investigation, Charles continued on…If the baby had been in the right driver seat, the baby would have been dead.  So the position of the car seat had saved his life, but the accident had changed its course entirely.

 The impact had been so great that it lifted both my car and the half-ton pick-up that I had cut off, into the air.  Charles had a row of autos setting in his yard, and the whole bottom of my car was above them. They were visible, under our vehicles in the air.  The truck then spun, in mid-air, 180 degrees.  My car did the same and upon landing on its right side, on the road’s bank, all the car’s windows exploded.  My Volvo’s right side was demolished, and the wound Charles had seen, on my right arm, had come from the mangled passenger side door.

My son and I were cleared from the ruble, both taken from the terror that encased us briefly, but would be transported separately to the hospital in Palmdale.  Although Harrison was not old enough to put his experiences into words, he heard the story many times, and was quick to tell whoever was interested that he went to the hospital in an ambulance, but his mommy got to go in a helicopter.  

Now We're Neighbors

 Mom, in her new yard

My mom moved into the town house across the street.

As my sister drove me home about 6 months ago, she pointed to the units across the street and said, We should knock on the door and ask them to sell so that mom could move in there.  Less than 6 months later, a For Sale sign appeared in front of one of the two town homes. I spent about 24 hours trying to answer the question Do I really want my mother living across the street?  but then I remembered; one of the reasons I came home, was to help my sister, Wally, care for my mom as she aged.   I don't have a great memory, but I remembered that.

Wally has a business to run, and I am no longer working on a daily basis, so I am the person most likely to help out.

I spent many hours each day, at my Mom's side, after she broke her hip.  Wally was there too, but she had a job to do.  I had just started drawing, so I'd bring my art supplies each day. I filled a couple of sketch books, watched too many episodes of Judge Judy-type programming, and tried to keep the spirits up.  After returning home, my sister spent nights with her, and I spent days.  We finally decided it was time for her to try things on her own.  She has done well, having both good days, and not so good ones.  She now has her 6 speed Audi back, after we tried hard to get her into an automatic, but I continue to do most of the driving. But that's fine, it is one of the reasons I came home, right?

Her apartment in the old hospital has no covered parking, let alone a garage, which is just plain crazy in Montana.  And, she has no outdoor space, which she misses greatly.  She tried to sell her unit a while ago, and had very little action. She didn't renew the listing as she had no place she really wanted to go.  But then, the place across the street came up!  It met all her requirements, plus it was close to both her girls.

It took some doing, but we convinced her to move.  She bought it and re-modeled, while still at the old hospital.  They painted, carpeted, and installed new counter tops, and appliances.   Her homes have always been beautiful, and this won't be any different, but she is moving out of the nicest neighborhood in town, to the country. At least, in her eyes.  She can see the sky from here, and has a beautiful view of the sunset from her deck.  She also has a flower filled yard and gardener to care for it.

Last night was the 1st night in her new home, and I look forward to her being across the street rather than driving into town, parking, and hobbling up to her unit.  Those days are gone, and she will begin another chapter of her life.

This TBI, and the Duck's Hall of Fame

                                     

I believe a person never fully recovers from trauma to the brain.  Any horrific injury will change you, to certain extent, right?

and, I will forever consider myself head injured.  I rarely pass up reading articles on the subject, but comparing brain injuries is difficult.  I think about its manifestations almost daily but, I try not to dwell.

I had a wonderful life before my accident, and I'm thankful for the things I was able to accomplish, and last Weekend, I was transported back to that time. I was inducted into the University of Oregon Hall of Fame, September 12th at Autzen Stadium, in Eugene, OR.. 

It was a magical time, as my family and I were  treated like royalty. The kindness shown me was extraordinary. I drove with my new husband Dan, and our good friend Brian, to Eugene with a stop in Portland where I got to spend a day with my best childhood friend Stasia.  Once in Eugene, we met up with my children, Rachel and Harrison, and their significant others, Joe and Brittany.  My mother Shirley, and two of my siblings were also able to attend. Bruce, with his wife Linda Ames and son Zach, and my sister Aimee, with her husband Eric Iverson were there too. It was fun to see my young adult kids, with their mates and cousin, being kids and I was reminded of myself at that age.  

The ceremony itself was an elegant affair.  The night seemed to fly by, and I saw many old friends, but the connection that meant the most was with Kenny Moore. He was a Sports Illustrated writer, had dated a team mate, and is a wonderful inspiration to me.  And, if I could change anything it would be to have spent more quality time with my two Oregon coaches, Mark, and Tom.

When I saw video clips of inductees were  shown prior to inductee speeches, (Yes, I had to speak,) I thought to myself, Video wasn't around back when I ran. But due to jangled nerves, I didn't watch much of mine anyway. 

Pat Johnson, a two-sport All-American went before me.  He  mentioned all the other inductees and said a little something about them.  He had nothing written down and seemed to be winging it, so when he got to my name he fumbled.  He ended up saying something about me still being relevant.  So I quickly added a new 1st line to mine, and because I couldn't locate pen or pencil I just repeated his name in my head, over, and over, with the word relevant.

This is the speech I gave:

I need to say this before I forget, Pat Johnson?  He's still relevant too.  But back to me... (or something like that, anyway.)

I was 7, and my mom lied about my age to get me on an all-girls track team.  The Timberettes were coached by the community college coach and athletes. Flathead Valley Community College only had a girls’ track team.  When I was really little, I’d look to the stands to wave at my mom and didn't care how I finished, but It didn't take long for me to realize how much I loved to win.

I wasn't going to run in Jr High, because girls didn't do sports.  But, in my 7^th grade girls’ PE class, I ran a timed mile and the HS coach, Joe McKay, saw it.  He asked me to go out for track when I got to high school, and that’s all it took. I decided I would run in Jr high & high school, if I was good enough, and it was all because of Joe.  

I was still at the Jr High as a freshman (it was 8-9^th grade) and I rode the bus across town to the high school and ran varsity…for COACH McKay.  By the way, Joe McKay has won the most state track and field titles in Montana history, and he is a really cool guy.

Towards the end of high school, I saw the list of times I had to run, to be a Duck. And, I laughed at the thought I’d EVER run that fast.  But, behind my back, my dad called, Tom Heinonan, the Duck’s head coach and we ended up visiting Eugene.  That’s the short story of how I got here.

The hurdles were higher and further apart then I ran in HS but I did ok , and I even broke some records, but, I never thought I’d still hold one after so many years, especially in the 400 meter hurdles.  I’d never run a hurdle race that long until becoming a Duck.  The longest I had run at home was 110 yards… yes, yards, that’s how old I am.

I stayed fairly healthy while I was here.  The team Doctor, Ken Singer, always teased by me saying he’d get me under his knife, sooner or later.   He ended up operating on my knee. But, I’d like everyone to know, it was NO FAULT of his, that my heart stopped part way through his procedure.  He calmly stepped back, let the anesthesiologist do what they do, and then finished his work.

But in 1991, I had a REAL brush with death when I sustained a traumatic brain injury in a car crash.  I lost all the motor skills on the right side of me, but I had 2 kids to raise, and a life to live.  Some say that my drive, and competitive nature is the reason I recovered to the extent that I did.

I still have a hitch in my get-along, my left eye wander, I search for words, and I process s things slower, but I survived.  My two beautiful children are grown now, Rachel and Harrison, and I’m so VERY proud of them. And, I have a new husband, Dan, who makes every night my Fri night.

And, at my old Jr High, that’s now a middle school, I COACH hurdles.  I get over 40, 7^th and 8^th grade girls and boys who want to hurdle.  And lots are distance runners because I also coach Cross country.  Their 1^st meet is tomorrow, but my AD said THIS was a valid excuse to miss it.

I need to thank some specific people now.  First, thanks to my parents, Moose and Shirley, who were my biggest fans, and rarely missed a meet.  

Thanks to Tom Heinonan, for letting my dad bring me here to try out, for keeping me focused, and for not forgetting me.  

Thank you to Mark Stream, for making me the best hurdler, and long jumper I could have ever been, for his very consistent kindness, and for helping me become the person I am today.  

Thanks to Rick Troxel, who was my trainer, and is enjoying the sand and surf in Hawaii right now, for keeping me healthy, for NOT passing out in Doctor Singer’s operating room during the heart incident, and remaining a good friend all these years.  

And finally, my family for their UNCONDITIONAL love, and support back then, but especially now.