Chapter 3 ... coached, coach·ing, coach·es: to train or tutor or to act as a trainer or tutor

          The pneumonia lengthened my stay in Palmdale, and I spent a week recovering. I needed the extra time though, to gain the skills that would get me transferred to an appropriate facility.  The head injury recovery process  begins in the intensive care unit and moves to a neurosurgical ward.  The patient might then be transferred to a sub-acute unit and then either a long-term acute care facility or a treatment unit.  To Gary, the long-term acute care facility looked like what we used to refer to as an Old Folks Home, and he decided against warehousing me.  He was my strong advocate. Many may not have pushed me towards the recovery I was capable of making.

He educated himself about head trauma, and knew that I needed inpatient treatment in a unit that specialized in that field, and he found Northridge hospital. It had an Acute Brain Injury Rehabilitation Program.  For my doctor to agree to the transfer, though, I was going to need to be able to perform cognitively.

While I ran track at the University of Oregon, my husband played football.  Coaches had been part of our lives since we were young.  I was, basically, an impassive lump of flesh, but I was his wife, and he had seen me train in college and then again while working full-time so he knew I was up to the task.

The cognitive assessment would require me to respond to a verbal command. So that’s what Gary would train me to do.  He prepared me to take a ball from his hand upon his command.  In essence he coached me to that end. During the doc’s formal assessment I was able to respond to his direction so I was sent to Northridge. 

I had hit my head in the left frontal lobe region and as a result lost all motor skills in my right hemisphere.  I also suffered from constant double vision, but that would not be known for some time.  I was not in good shape at all, but I was alive.  The admittance history describes me as a 30 year old, previously healthy female, suffering from an underlying brain injury caused by a closed cranial trauma resulting from an automobile accident.

          For some reason, it feels good to read the residual post traumatic encephalopathy, or brain injury, I was suffering from was of a severe degree.  My athletic soul often thinks I’ve been a wimp, and part of me thinks I should have come further, in terms of recovery.  Sometimes, I still think if I had worked a little harder or put more effort into my recovery, I would be more like I once was.  But, then I recall it was severe and I give myself permission to go easier on myself. 

Upon admittance to the second hospital, he pushed my wheel chair through the hall, and turning into my room I passed by a mirror, or a glass window, and saw my reflection.  A look of surprise registered on my face.  An area of my scalp was shaved to allow for insertion of the pressure relieving shunt, and although the device itself had been removed, my hair line was still uneven.  I have a vague recollection of this, and I remember just wanting to be put in bed so I could sleep

The report also states that I fractured my mandible, and my jaw was surgically wired shut to allow for healing.  When I did begin to rejoin the living, the wiring, as well as the inability to eat, didn't even register as out of the ordinary.  I had a hearty appetite, and loved to eat so the fact food was not a part of my daily life should have been quite upsetting. 

I was in a hospital, unable to speak or move, with no recollection of what brought me there in the first place, and on top of that, I was seeing two of everything.  The two images were not side by side either. Things were really out of sync but I quickly figured out how to deal with the problem.  I simply closed one eye.  Medical professionals equated the one closed eye with double vision but the same experts chose to address other, more pressing problems first.

The more urgent issue I faced was the paralysis of my right hemisphere, so I began with two sessions of physical therapy daily.  My therapist was new to the hospital, but Kyle quickly endeared himself to my family.  He laughed easily, but definitely made me work.  We formed an immediate bond but it was my father’s efforts that brought us there.  

My father was proud of all his children.  We nicknamed him friendly because of he entertained complete strangers with stories of his kids' accomplishments.  Less than 10 years prior to my crash I had been a record setting, track and field athlete at the University of Oregon, and my successes gave him plenty of story material.  He regaled anybody within earshot with my achievements. 

          My father let Kyle know, probably immediately, about my sports accomplishments, as if to say Yeah, she’ll get this taken care of.  We started work on a low, matted physical therapy table, where he began by teaching me to move from lying down to sitting up.  This can be tricky, especially if only half your body works. 

          After transitioning to sitting, we worked on getting on my hands and knees.  That too was challenging as my right hand was closed in a tight fist, as if ready to clobber someone.  Kyle would have to pry my digits open and so that my fist was not clenched.  He would splay my fingers so my palm would rest flat on the surface of the mat.  This hand position is still difficult, many years post TBI.

In the hospital I wore a molded plastic brace, created specifically for me to force my hand to remain open while I slept.  Also, the created a cast for that arm to open it in varying degrees.  My brain would be reminded that the arm was not suppose to be pulled up, and rigid all the time.  They divided my final cast in half so that it could be removed during the day, but I wore it, along with the hand brace, at night. While awake, I had to consciously focus on keeping my hand and fingers as well as my elbow joint, relaxed.

My right side was not just weak, it did not function at all, initially, and when I could actually bear weight and stand upright, I was not able to rely on a walker.  Therefore, Kyle and two other therapists parked me upright, in front of an ordinary shopping cart.  I gripped the handle, as if it were a lifeline and one of the therapists was assigned to my bad leg, one was assigned to the cart, and Kyle was, somehow, in charge of the whole escapade.  To those watching, I am sure, we moved agonizingly slow, but it was a milestone.  Kyle had taken me from doing nothing, to doing something.  To me it was just another day in therapy, doing what I was told to do, with as little back talk, or complaint as possible. 

Along with physical therapy, I also received occupational and speech therapies at Northridge Hospital. Occupational therapy dealt with being physically productive, and the speech work I had also involved working on my cognition; my actual thought process.  That was an area needing help, too.