"Still Lexie" it is Out

    

"Still Lexie" the Book: Done

My book's title is Still Lexie because I am. In 1991, I suffered a traumatic brain injury in a car crash in California's high desert.  Some head injuries cause distinct personality change but when mine finally surfaced from the fog of uncertainty no one told me it had changed.  

I didn't need anyone to tell me that physically, I emerged a very different person.  I never regained total function in my right hemisphere and I call the way I walk a 'hobble.' Even after two surgeries my eyes continue to wonder around their sockets, too, both working just not in unison.  My balance continues to be a major issue and I now use a rollator, walker on 4 wheels, when I need to be upright for a long period of time, especially on the track at K.M.S.  I am also slower mentally but friends, especially those with no reference to the before me, say they see no limitations apart from my limp. They are polite.

After several years of pecking at my laptop with the 5 fingers on my left hand and the right pointer digit, I have finished "Still Lexie" my memoir. I am now in search of a Kick-Ass Literary Agent and, or Publisher.  Actually, I'd take anyone willing to publish me.  Currently, I am sending out submissions. 

I began writing this book in Boise in 2009 by reading the accident report for the first time and writing the details around the actual crash, taken from accounts from those that were there.  They were conscious, whole individuals, I was not.

After divorcing, I decided to move back to my home in Montana, where I began.  I continued to write sporadically but was having a hard time organizing.  The book took a backseat.  For the most part, I was focused on getting my new, single life together.  But then, Facebook told me a classmate, Kelly, published a book.  When I actually saw her, probably for the first time since high school, she shared that she enjoyed my blog. "There's a book there, you know!" was her comment.

As casual as I could, I said, "I've started writing one and lots of my blog stories are in it."

It is difficult to say, out loud, "I am a writer," unless you've had material published.  It puts your writing abilities on display and what people actually hear is, "I want to be a writer."  Kelly had been published therefore she was a real writer and I was encouraged.  

She asked me to send her what I had written and said she would help me get it done. And she did. Kelly was only an acquaintance in high school, the friend of my friends but we have quickly bonded and I am certain I would not have completed the book without her help and her friendship.

From her I leaned it needed to be a memoir and because of that I would have to start at the beginning. She told me my readers needed to know me before the accident so I started when I did; my birth in Kalispell, Montana.  I had not lived here since coming home summers during my college years in the early 80s so writing about my childhood came easier after returning to the Flathead valley.

I wrote about my childhood; growing up in this last best place which I now appreciate tenfold.  I had help recalling my high school years and early track career from coach Joe McKay, who I see a few days a week at Sykes, a local diner.  Then, I travelled to Eugene to meet with Mark and Tom my Duck coaches extraordinaire. When I thought I was finished, my children read what I had written and gave me their ideas.  I made some changes, wrote some more and finally arrived at the conclusion.

My objective was to tell my story; the rise, fall and return to self of one of Montana's best track and field athletes.  It's from my point of view and was not always easy but it was something I had to do for myself. It is a book about my life, almost to date but includes Montana stuff, things about Track and Field at the University of Oregon and general head injury information.

Reaching this finish line, years after leaving the blocks might be more satisfying than any race any race I ever ran, maybe.

My Best Last

TUESDAY, AUGUST 11, 2015

My Best Last

We did it, we finished! We were told we could say so because we did cross the finish line, on our bikes. But, I have to be truthful. At about 70 miles the race people stopped Justin, and as I pulled up and saw 4 orange Search and Rescue shirts (worn by the ride officials) with him, I knew it was over. You want me to quit, right? I asked.

Justin laughed, but the Orange Shirts were dead serious. They told me the ambulance (on-call at the finish line) had gone back to the hospital, and we had pedaled in 80-90 degree heat for more than 9 hours. The workers had discussed it, they told Justin, before I pulled up. They said they decided to pull everyone who hadn't reached the finish. Like there are more? We snickered silently, and he actually asked whether there were other riders still out. Their answer was, of course, No...it's just you guys. 

The Orange Shirts kept apologizing, saying We're in charge of your safety, you had a helluva ride etc. but we understood. And to tell you the truth, I was glad it was their call and not ours. I think Justin was too, but you should ask him.

We started at 8 AM, after eating a fast food breakfast; it was the only open restaurant in Libby, was open early enough, and the dam where we were to start was still 17 miles away. It was the crack of dawn, and there was only one guy there who wasn't behind the counter. We both assumed he worked there, but as we walked past him, he asked if we knew of anything he could apply to his saddle to make it not so slippery. We looked at him as if to say, Do we look like cowboys? and then he told us he was riding the bike thing too. I realized he had seen our shirts with the name of the bike ride on the back. We mumbled that we didn't, and he left. If we couldn't find any place to get a meal, where was he going to find what he needed?

The night before, we had driven up to the dam, checking how long it would take us to get there. We were lucky because it was further than either of us had remembered. The fact I didn't know how far the dam was, really didn't matter. When I'm with Justin he's in charge. For his own safety! he would say.

Several campers and motor homes were in the parking lot when we arrived, and we were glad that we had been in a motel. I was reminded to thank my sister for notloaning us hers. 130 riders started the 83 mile ride around Lake Koocanusa, and there were 5 stops along the way for hydration (water and Hammer Heed drink that's like Gatorade, but not as tasty,) snacks (bagels, muffins, trail mix, oranges, etc.) and lunch (sammies, chips, cookies.)

Wally, my sister, suggested we drive the course before riding, but I didn't want to know how hard it was going to be. Justin heard it was hilly, and I figured if there were up-hills, there had to be down-hills too, and my 3 wheeler geared way down so I could creep up steep hills, very slowly, without disembarking (one could walk faster.) Justin had ridden the 100 mile CASA last summer, and is a real stud (don't tell him I said so.) I knew he could do it. And, as we kind of trained, he told me he was sure I'd make it, too. He added that it might take us a while. When he picked me up the night before, for the drive to Libby, he asked if I had my head lamp. You'll need it when the sun goes down and we're still pedalling, he joked. Justin is Mr. Sarcastic most of the time; like whenever he's breathing.

You could call what we did over the Spring and Summer, semi, or para, or part training. We rode to and from Somers and Kila, but never did the whole thing; from one to the other, and back to the 1st. But he has the smartphone app Map My Ride (one of his favorite toys,) and he figured we averaged about 10 miles an hour. We were ready, or so we thought.

We rode away from the dam, up a gnarly hill, and we lost sight of the other bikes almost immediately. The hill was long, and steep, and I just kept thinking to myself, I rode 11 miles up Going to the Sun Road in Glacier Park last Spring, after not riding all Winter, I can do this. You might think, as I did, that the ride downhill would be relaxing, and that I'd be able to rest, but that wasn't the case. I found that out, on that 1st downhill. I was going to have to stay focused on braking and steering.

My new recumbent is way better than my previous trike, but if I get going too fast, it starts to shimmy. My bike is the tadpole configuration of a 3-wheeler; there is one wheel in the back, and I sit directly over the crossbar between the 2 front wheels. Handles to control the steering and gears are down by my hips. As I rode down the massive hill, I remembered an earlier time when my foot slipped under the crossbar, and the bike continued, trapping my leg and pitching me forward, over the pedal wheel (is that even a thing?) When it happened, I was going very slow, but a pedal was still able to reach out and tear into my shin. I considered what would happen if the same thing occurred while travelling well over 10 miles an hour, downhill. The picture in my head was not pretty, so I slowed down some, and focused harder. I wouldn't be able to rest any time soon.

We settled into a routine where Justin would get up the hills way in front of me, then he'd let me catch him on the downhill. The scenery was beautiful, but I have to admit I didn't have it in me to appreciate much of it. I was busy pushing myself physically to get up the hills (Legs, don't fail me now!) and using all my mental capabilities to not become too complacent and crash on the downhill.

Riding in the dense forest's shade, mostly, up one side of the huge reservoir, kept us out of the heat. And the road was basically traffic free. But it was still incredibly difficult for me. Justin pointed out the bridge we would cross over before heading back. He told me there was a hydration stop on the other side, and from there, we would be over half way. I needed that. Knowing I was 1/2 way meant I was only 40 miles from finishing.Crap, that's still a long way, I whined to myself. The next several miles were like a bad joke; every time that bridge came into view, it seemed as far away as it did the 1st time we saw it! Several times it appeared, and several times my hopes were thrashed.

Justin waited for me so we could ride over the bridge together. We were approaching a stop, so we slowed to take in the beautiful view. The bridge was high above the water's surface, and what looked like beaches on the lake, Justin said, were just high water marks. He told me of a guy who jumped off for fun, when the water was higher. As his friends watched, he made the jump, surfaced, and took a few strokes, before going under. He died from internal injuries sustained when hitting the water's surface. Justin is full of neat stories like that.

We reached the rest stop across the river and stopped to rest. He filled my bladder, and congratulated me for drinking it all. I came back with, Of course I drank it! I'm not the one we have to worry about! Just recently, he had had a scare in Utah. He found himself passed out in the dirt next to his tent, his face very bruised and scraped. But that's his story, this is mine.

Justin filled my camelback, which is a backpack with a bladder to carry water. You bite the end of a tube hanging from the pack, it opens, you suck water into your mouth, and swallow. That way, you can hydrate on the fly and don't have to stop!  Yes, I knew I had to stay hydrated, and I did, but it required expending energy as I had to:

1. get a hold of the mouthpiece, which was usually on my right shoulder, but sometimes fell out of sight
2. position the mouthpiece (on the end of the tube) just right, between my fake teeth (the bridges top and bottom, replaced several teeth removed after my accident - the top bridge has been replaced twice, and it's spendy so I am extra careful when I have to bite anything anything harder than... soft)
3. bite the mouthpiece to open the tube, careful to use my back teeth
4. suck the water into my mouth 
5. swallow the water 

So you see, when I'm wiped out physically and mentally, just drinking water can be taxing.

At the rest/hydration/food stops Justin arrived way before I did, and when I rolled in he took it upon himself to refill my camelback. Sweet guy. He had to take it from my bike's fabric carrier, remove the bladder from its' own backpack, and open it, which takes all sorts of shenanigans that are difficult for the physically impaired. Finally, after closing up the bladder, and re securing it in its' pack, it had to be tucked back into my carrier. That may not sound very difficult, and I could have done it, but Justin would have had to sit idle, watching me, and waiting until I was finally ready to roll again. I know, I am extra fortunate to have him as a friend.

Back on the road, we were directly in the sun, and there was a lot more traffic. Just inside the shoulder was a rumble strip. It wakes up sleepy drivers by making a loud hum when moving wheels cross it.  If I rode with the strip between my wheels, my back wheel bumped over the raised lines of asphalt, and drove me crazy. There was just enough room for my two front wheels between the rumble strip and the dirt and gravel next to the road so that's where I'd ride. We faced a very long, semi steep hill, and the next stop would be for lunch. Justin pulled away from me, as the sun beat down on us, and I pushed those pedals around, and around. I tuned into the sound of the broom wagon. It's there to pick up the stragglers who don't finish in time. But, at the time I didn't know there even was such a thing. I compared that car to my recumbent when I coached cross country. I realized there had to be someone responsible for every last rider, just as I was responsible for every last athlete. I realized he had followed me the whole way. I concentrated on the hum of the engine as I crept up the hill. But then I felt chills, and I looked at my forearms and saw goose bumps. This is not good, I thought, as I remembered the feeling.

I was in Mexico with my 1st husband, the last time I felt like this. I was watching my new husband para sail. We got back to the room, where I started to hallucinate, and he put me in cool bath before calling the front desk for a thermometer. Not familiar with the Celsius scale, he phoned back to have the temp converted to Fahrenheit. They sent me directly to a doc in town who said it was food poisoning, and shot me up with penicillin.

Thinking back on that experience, I continued to pedal but I knew I needed to stop. At some point, I told Justin I didn't think I'd make it. He was riding well ahead, but stopping on hill tops to wait for me. He told me if I went with the broom wagon, he'd see me at the next stop. But the chills and goosebumps let up, and I was able to make it to lunch, where I planned to give it up to the broom wagon. But the orange shirts there filled me with electrolyte hydration, and protein, and offered me 2 energy boost pill. I took the pills, and after using the toilet, I felt much better.

It's only 22 more miles, they said encouragingly. Justin chimed in, To Somers and back is all, we do that all the time. I told myself I'd stop if the chills/goosebumps returned, and off we pedalled. I felt like a new gal! We'd do it now, I mused. There was a hydration stop in 10 miles so that was my goal. Ken pulled the Broom Wagon alongside to tell me he was pulling over, and would catch up with me. A few minutes later he returned to ask how I felt, and I responded Good! 

But around the next corner I met up with Justin, surrounded by orange shirts. Broom Wagon Ken joined us and after hearing we pedalled for 9 hours in the heat, I knew it was time to stop. Once our bikes were loaded up, and we were sitting in air conditioning, Justin asked if they could let us out at the top of the hill leading to the finish so that we could ride down. Sure! Was their answer, and so we did. Once we finished, all the Orange Shirts cheered. Ken asked if he could douse me with a cooler of water in celebration, and I said he could. It was a big cooler, and it seemed like it would never stop.

I don't remember ever finishing last in any of my athletic performances, prior to my TBI (traumatic brain injury in 1991.) This hurdler/jumper/sprinter even ran several 5K road races after competing as a Duck. But even then, I was never last. But as I rolled to the finish at the bottom of the dam on Saturday, both arms held high, last place seemed OK to me!

This is for you Justin, THANKS!

Silver Sneakers

The 1st time I saw anybody involved in a Silver Sneakers class was when mom was in Heritage Place in the transition unit. She had a compression fracture in her lower spine. And a gnarly, plastic, turtle shell-type back brace had been fashioned for her tiny bird-like body.  She exercised with a physical therapist every day but was not in the shape necessary for Silver Sneakers.  But when I saw the group of older people exercising in a group setting there, with someone facilitating the class, I was impressed.  I thought to myself, Wow, even an accident prone, head injured, over 50 could do that! It gave me something to look forward to...when I got older.

Then, after a meal at Sykes (one of our favorite places for a quick meal,) as we paid the bill, I spotted a pamphlet with the heading, Fitness 50 plus. Classes were offered in the basement there, with the tag professional safe exercise for the 50+ older adult.  Not even realizing it was Silver Sneakers, I asked my sister to join me.  We've gone twice a week for a while now, and I really enjoy it.  Wally says she likes it too, but part of me thinks she might be humoring me.  But as long as she shows up, I'll keep on believin'.  

It's a strength and balance class, but Nancy (Mehring) also leads a Zumba Gold class which is a dance-fitness.  I've just come to accept my love of dance, now that I'm old, as well as disabled.  I have absolutely no balance, and only 1/2 my body works at full capacity.  We decided, actually Wally gently suggested, that we try this class before we move to jumping around like fools.

This Friday, however, we're starting an advanced strength and balance class.  We've been told we'll be on our feet moving for 30 minutes straight, with weights and stretchy bands.  I guess we'll put off the dance-type fitness till we see if we can handle this.

Oh, and I had to tell mom, No, we weren't placed in the advanced class because we're all that and a bag-o-chips... we're just silly enough to try it!

Seizures and Such

I have a new neurologist, my 1st in Kalispell.  When I left the hospital, and for many years after,  I called them head doctors.  Probably because was the main injury that put me in the hospital.  When I left California, I thought of myself as recovered, to a certain extent.

Almost as soon as I got home we moved to Eugene, OR and I did some rehab the hospital near campus, but did not see a neurologist.  We moved to Lynden, WA after a short while, and I still
did not see a neurologist.  Finally we moved to Boise, ID and I don't remember seeing a neurologist there either. I haven't seen a doctor regarding my head injury since I left Los Angeles.

I did see a doctor, where I don't know, in order for my disability payments to continue.  I needed to prove, Yes, I am still disabled! And more recently, I saw a Doc here in Kalispell to review my condition, to once again receive disability.

I was happy to learn that it is very common for people who work themselves off disability, go back on it, at some time before retirement.  The last step in my reapplication process was to an actual doc, to show them I was disabled.  She examined me, and asked me some questions and we both laughed at their simplicity. I proceeded to answer them wrong.  She said she was amazed I had worked as long as I did, but she would report that I was indeed disabled.  She warned me the final decision was not hers, she was only giving those in charge her professional opinion.

By the way, she said, you should have a neurologist.

When my primary doctor and I decided my hot spells were not menopausal, and are triggered by anxious thoughts he also said I should see a neurologist.  When in doubt blame the TBI (traumatic brain injury.)  I'm sure you know some, who should I see? I asked him.  He told me the Lindsay brothers were excellent, and he would get me into one of them.  But just as he said Lindsay, I had a flashback to a high school reunion, when I was told that a classmate, Brett Lindsay, had become a brain doctor.  I asked to see him.

I've seen him twice.  !st we tried increasing my anti depressant, because that can work to alleviate anxiety, but it didn't work.  Now. we are trying a seizure med, because after talking more, Brett (I'm sorry, but I can't call him Doctor) thinks they might be mini seizures.  I thought, Call it whatever you want!  Just make them stop!  

Now, when I feel myself heat up, I ask myself, Self? Does this feel like a seizure?  I'm trying to believe it might be the case, and am planning a celebration when I am flush free, but there is a part of me that says, No, I'm destined to live in discomfort, I've had a TBI.

The temporal lobe processed emotion and is important in short term memory, and that's where I hit my head.  A blow there can result in seizure disorders.  One of the 1st questions you get when docs find out I've had a TBI is, Do you have seizures?  I always considered myself lucky because I don't have them; at least not the loss of consciousness/jerking around type that everyone is familiar with. But, I learned you can have a seizure that doesn't result in in any of that. So now I'm wondering, and researching what is actually called a temporal lobe seizure.

Having odd feeling like euphoria or deja vu are also typical of temporal lobe seizure symptoms. Funny thing is I've always had a view deja vu moments, but I've had many, many more for the past couple years, and they've been different.  I always assumed they were glimpses into past lives (yes, I believe in reincarnation) because the brief thoughts are of another era.  Those short moments are very pleasant, but Brett says they may also go away, with the hot flashes, but it would be worth it.

We'll see if 6 weeks on this med helps.  Stay tuned.

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. 

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.  

My TBI's Effect on My Children

When I think about the effect my TBI had on those around me, I get very sad, and because of that I try not to dwell on it.

It was many years ago, and my children were young when I sustained a TBI in a horrific car accident. My son, Harrison, was with me when I wrecked, and I am so thankful I sustained the head injury, and not him. He may not have hit his head, or lost consciousness, but shattering glass shredded his baby forehead.  It took more than 100 stitches to close the gaps. He was otherwise uninjured; we were very fortunate.

He was just turning 3, I think, maybe it was 2, but those are the things that escape me.  Memory Difficulty and TBI are close friends.  My daughter was in preschool, and it would be a year before she'd be in kindergarten, but I'm not sure of her exact age at the time either.

That morning, Harrison and I had driven his dad/my husband (at the time) to the airport in Southern California's Orange County, from our home in the Antelope Valley.  After returning to Lancaster, I spoke to my neighbor.  I guess I told her Harrison was cranky, and I was going to the school district office to turn in a job application, hoping Harrison would fall asleep.

I drove directly through a sign that said STOP, and was hit by an oncoming truck, doing about 45 miles per hour.  My last solid memory before it happened was actually hours before the accident.  I remember listening to Sally Jesse Rafael's talk show on the radio, on the ride from Orange County, back to Lancaster.  But then I have no memories, until after the accident.  My first of the after memories; I'm in a hospital, and my mother is across the room by a window, reading something. She says that was the 1st of two hospitals I spent time in.

I can't begin to know what baby Harrison went through.  His world was literally upended, as the truck collided with the front passenger quarter of my car.  The force turned my baby's car seat, which was in the back seat, 90 degrees, then our automobile left the ground, spun 90 degrees and landed on its side in the ditch. Windshields shattered, the shards finding my baby's soft face.

He heard the story retold umpteen times, but he chose to remember that he went to the hospital in an ambulance, but I got to ride in a helicopter! His memories are from the stories he's heard, and I'm not even sure he has any recall from the actual crash.  God, I hope not, is all I can say.

He had to be anesthetized to suture his head, but that was all he needed medically.   He knew what happened because he was there, but his sister didn't.  She was at Ms. Judy's preschool and I didn't arrive to pick up her and a friend. Ms Judy phoned Linda, the mother of my daughter's friend. She picked the girls up, but was certain something had happened.  I wasn't the kind to shirk pick up/drop off duties. Anyway, both my kids were to stay with Linda's family for the weekend. Their dad and I had planned a trip to Arizona.  Rachel stayed with Linda's family for sometime I believe, as our accident was dealt with.

I was in the hospital for 4 months, my kids visited me, and I recall spending Christmas eve in a conference room, of sorts, with my husbands' California family. I also remember my husband leaving my 4 year old daughter with me as he ran to McDonald's for her lunch.  I think that she was as surprised as I was when her dad left, saying he'd be back soon.  Maybe she sensed what kind of shape I was in, and was as surprised as I was when Gary left her with me.  Everything went well, though, and he was back soon.  Towards the end of my hospital stay, I came home on weekends, as a sort of trial.  I guess I passed, because I got to go home.

It's hard to say what are just normal childhood experiences, and what happened because of our shared trauma.  For sure, it wasn't normal that their mom didn't talk for some time, and was in the hospital for so long.  It wasn't normal for them, to see me in a wheelchair, with a loft strand cane, and finally walking unaided, but with a permanent limp. I had always been fairly active with them but now I could hardly knock over plastic bowling pins swinging my bad arm.  I feared dropping them, or falling with them in my arms, so I didn't hold them as much as I would have.  When I went home we had a nanny to care for them, and that was certainly not normal.

But as they say, kids are resilient.  Soon after I got home we moved from Southern California to Eugene, Oregon, and Rachel went to Kindergarten.  There was some separation anxiety in the beginning, and her teacher had to pry her from my arms.  Kindergarten Teacher A assured me that as soon as I was out of sight, the tears stopped.  The same scenario played out at the Easter Seals pool where she took swim lessons.  Perhaps each time she clung to me, her thoughts were that I'd left her like this once before, and her life was never the same. We even saw a psychologist, who observed Rachel, and spoke to her. After one session we were told she was acting appropriate, given her circumstance, and her clinginess would abate, eventually.  We got almost there too!  She could exit the car, and walk the length of two halls to her classroom, alone, as well as walk to the side of the pool without me.  But then, we moved again, and that set her back some.

This time we moved to Lynden, Washington, a very small town.  The separation anxiety returned, but the principal of her school was very understanding, and said he would came to the car personally, to extract her and get her to class.  I never did take him up on the offer, because she decided to try the bus. In  the beginning, I would walk her onto the bus, but the other kids would count the cars backed up on our country road as they waited for her to let me go.

Resilience, remember?  She eventually gained the strength to get on a school bus, alone.  And as she grew, became a very strong, independent individual.

My son was younger, and I hadn't abandoned him, so the aftermath may not have been he same. He had the scars from our accident, though, and his dad was concerned that other kids would speak not-so-nice about them.  We spoke to a doc, and he told us that Harrison was too young to consider cosmetic surgery, and that when he was old enough, it should be his decision.  I don't remember ever discussing it again.  He has turned out to be a very kind, and loving man.

And both my kids are very sensitive.  Harrison wears his heart on his sleeve, while Rachel is more private regarding her feelings, but they both love me, unconditionally, and for that I am thankful.

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.

More Slang

It just really tickles me (older terminology) to hear old fashioned jargon used in the now.  That one’s current, and brings some Zen belief into the equation.

That Ts me off, is another of those vintage expressions.  I think the T must stand for tick, because you can be ticked, or Td off (either is paired appropriately with off.) It simply meant you were mad, or angry. 

Some sayings are over used quickly, and I tire of them before I even have a chance to use them.  That is, if I ever even wanted to use them in the 1^st place. Some are expressions that remind me of the type of person I usually don’t care for.  Like It’s all good, makes me think of friends that abandoned me after I divorced, so that’s out.

A term I’ve used, even though I dislike it, is awesome. Who am I kidding? I hate it!  In the world of education, it is used a lot, but now that I am out of the day-to-day, I can honestly say everyone, and everything IS NOT awesome!  And, that’s OK, because that’s how life is; some things just suck.

Now that I’m out, I’ll never have to use awesome again. And now I can use a word my 5^th graders never could.  That word is sucks, because it made them sound uneducated. Continuing with my rant, I told them I knew that was not true, because I was educating them! 

But we say it at home!  They’d whine.  Great,  I’d reply, just don’t say it here.

Now, even I say it, (see above) hypocrite/cynic that I’ve become. 

I don’t like the fact that the words back in the day, can mean back in my day.  I feel old enough, and don’t need any help from current slang.

I’ll end with a favorite that came from my dad. If something went wrong, or didn’t end the way dad had envisioned, he would say that really gravels my ass.  I wish my brain would let me use it more often, because it paints a really detailed image.

An Occupational Therapist's Mistake

In physical therapy they taught me to use my not-so-great body parts as much as I could, but that’s not so easy to do, when it’s so much quicker, and easier, to use the parts that were not affected. Once I was upright, again, and walking, it was with a loft strand cane because my right side was not capable of using a walker. My physical therapist would remind me to step up/down, from the curb/step and lead with my bad left foot! 

Is he crazy? I thought. It doesn’t work! 

But in occupational therapy, it was another story. Soon after I came out of the coma, an OT stuck a pencil in my left hand (I was right handed,) and said: This is how you’ll have to write from now on. I took the pencil, and began to write. 

Sweet Jesus! That looks like crap! This hand only knows how to help!

That's what I'd say now, but then I just followed their directions. I was an easy patient; no agitation, or aggression here! 

But after I got home, things were different. Family friends were visiting from Canada, and I was writing a sloppy, almost indiscernible list. Their young son asked me why I was writing left-handed. I told him the truth. I wasn’t sure. 

Just try with your right hand! He said, I bet you can!

I tried, and haven’t written with my left hand since that day.

Honyock

Do you ever think of words you heard, when you were a child, but not anymore?  My mom use to call her kids honyocks,  there were 6 of us.  But she always said it with a smile on her face.  One who is wild, and/or crazy, is the definition I had in mind; a noun.  I looked it up, to see if I was right, and found that a honyock, usually a male, is crude, unsophisticated and acts like a peasant.  He is a rustic oaf.  But the definition includes that it is a playful term of address.  My memories were correct then, and mom was just being playful.

I thought about that word for the 1^st time, in a long while, during cross country practice.  I was on my 3-wheel recumbent (cool trike) I ride, to keep up with my middle school runners, and so that when I stop, I am automatically sitting down (the safest place for me.) As the kids circled the park we were in, the word appeared in my brain, out of nowhere. 

As soon as I turned to my co-coach, I knew he would be familiar with the word.  He’s a cowboy, from Eastern Montana (love the guy) and he grew up on a farm.  When I asked him about honyock , he laughed and said, Honyocker?

I told him I never heard Honyocker .  And quickly added, Honyocker would mean one who honyocks, and honyack would be a verb!  It’s a noun, Coach!

The word isn’t in Spell Check, and I had to look in a couple on-line dictionaries.  I found it in Dictionary.com, and indicated it came from their Slang Dictionary.

Even though I checked other on-line Slang  Dictionaries, I never did find Honyocker.   But, I did find someone who’s mom use to use it, often, and guess what?  She’s from Eastern Montana, too, so I guess it’s a regional MT thing.  Now I have a new word to use, and that's neat, I like new words :)