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.
and 
