"Still Lexie" it is Out

    

Dehydrating up Woodland Park Hill

Yeah, I was an athlete, back in the day.  Before kids, and an adult life came into focus, I competed for the University of Oregon.  Several records and accomplishments ensued but after my 1984 Olympic Trials 400 meter hurdle race, I officially retired.  5-K road races kept the athlete in me alive until my kids were born and then I was content to just be 'mom.'  My inner athlete took a nap as I began to raise my kids but then I suffered a traumatic brain injury that robbed me of the motor skills of my entire right hemisphere.

My athletic background, I'm sure, is part of the reason I recovered as well as I did but I never regained enough physical ability to actually run.  The athlete in me survived though as I now coach middle school kids.  And I ride a recumbent bike as well as jump and jiggle with a group of seniors three days a week to keep moving. But this last fall, I signed up for my first road race since before my accident.  With the OK to ride my bike while the others ran, I was set.

It was a mid morning start and I left the house early, on my bike, and got an iced coffee drink to enjoy on the way to the start.  I had not had anything else the entire morning.  Previously, I had ridden 70 miles in a not-race so the 5-K did not seem like a big deal.  Silly me.  Excited about the race aspect and envisioning myself riding along side real athletes, I made my way to the start.

Because I was the only contestant pedalling, I started at the rear and carefully steered my way past the walkers and slow goers.  We wound our way through Woodland Park and it was more difficult than I had anticipated; maneuvering my trike safely through the mass of runners.  I didn't break free of the mob until I reached the bottom of the hill.

Then, I thought, "Now I can really get after it!"  So I started up the hill, limbs a turnin' those wheels round and round.  I grew up near the top of the hill so thought I knew its scope but I was wrong. My head began to ache but I continued to push for the summit where I knew it flattened out.  The more I pushed, the worse my head felt until it began to throb. There would no more hills, I was certain, so my focus was getting up that hill.  The closer I got to the top the harder my head hammered; it was as if what remained of my brain was going to explode cleanly out the top.

Finally, the road evened out, and the hill was behind me but the pounding in my noggin continued. I had a water bottle in my carrier but to retrieve it I had to stop my bike and my competitive side took over. Before the race, I told myself I'd take it slow and enjoy, but because I wanted to catch those runners I had thought about riding with, I pushed on.

By the time I passed the Conrad Mansion, I realized I had to stop.  I was going to have to scoop up brain parts and the skull shrapnel because my head was literally ready to blow.  I slowed to a stop on the side of the sixth avenue between third and fourth street.  My head remained intact but the assault within continued.  Half a block down, a race official I recognized shouted to ask if I was OK.  Of course I said I was, as I fumbled for my cell phone.  I carry it in a pocket that hangs around my neck and it was then I realized it was for moments just like this.  Standing up to finagle myself off my trike was an impossibility because I knew I was on the edge of consciousness.

Finally, the battle in my brain eased slightly and I was able to ask my husband to come to the east side of town to get me. As I waited I was even able to pedal very slowly out of the race route.  When Dan arrived he had to help me off my bike and into his SUV, then he loaded up my bike.  My head still rang with pain but I was able to down a bottle of Powerade on my way home.  Again, with his help I reached my couch to lay down.  It wasn't long before I was up and hobbling to the bathroom where I vomited all the liquid I had consumed.  It took several hours for me to feel well again.

At what point, I realized I was dehydrated, I don't know, but when I did I couldn't help but think, "Oh, this is why I tell my KMS kids to stay hydrated."  Never, had I felt as physically spent as I did that day but I learned a valuable lesson.  HYDRATE

"Good" Arm Gone Bad

     The bicep not affected by my head injury has been sore for over six months so I finally went to my doctor. I've had many surgeries but the two important here were for a herniated disk and torn rotator cuff. I thought my new problem dealt with my shoulder even though my symptoms mirrored the those of my herniated disc.  But I like my orthopedic surgeon better than my spine doctor so I went to him first.

Dr. E had operated on my shoulder so when he told me my pain was not coming from the rotator cuff I believed him.  One must trust individuals who have had their digits inside you.  He sent me to my spine person, his hands had been under the skin on my neck, fiddling with my parts, also. He send me to a guy who tested my nerves with tiny electrical shocks to identify which one was pinched.  After that I went to the hospital for a nerve block. It was a quick procedure and almost painless but it did no good.  The dull aching sensation in my bicep remained and when I saw Doc Spine he told me I needed to go back to my orthopedic man.

By now I was pretty tired of the run around and said, half jokingly, that one of them better fix it because it still hurt.  I could tell he was taken aback by my mini show of emotion because he seems to have none.  I call him Mr. Personal.  He does not care unless there is a chance he can perform surgery so when he realizes he can't, he is done with you.  I've been told he does care and because he is a fine surgeon I hold that comment close.

So I'm sitting on the toilet (number 2) the morning of my final appointment and I turn, using the sore arm, to wipe.  Yes, that's not pleasant but is an important part of the story.  My arm began to tighten but I had lived with the pain for what seemed like a lifetime so my arm continued its route.  Then I felt a pop, or a pull, or a strain and was unable to finish my job.  The pain was pretty intense but I wasn't too worried because I was seeing Dr. E in a couple hours.

By the time my appointment rolled around I had some slight bruising on the inside of my elbow but I attributed that to a recent bike fall.  I waited, in the examining room with my shoe off.  My barefoot would remind me to question him about a hammer toe.  He had previously fixed it but the toe had pulled back to its original presurgery position.  It was not why I was there but I was going to get as much information as a could without another appointment.   He looked and blamed it on my whacked brain.  It was 'tone' and my brain was doing it.  OK, let's move on.

I told him the nerve block did not work and the arm still hurt. I let him know I wasn't sure he could even check it because of the muscle strain or pull from that morning.  He examined me briefly, twisted and fondled my arm, sat down casually, legs crossed and arms behind his head and told me I had severed a bicep tendon.  And then with a big smile, said I had taken care of my arm issue, myself!  He said my pain had probably been chronic tendinitis and that surgeons go in and sever it, for relief. Therefore, it ought to be good in about three weeks, he said with a smile.  He said to come back in then but I made no appointment.  I already have less pain so maybe I did fix myself!

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 4 - The Claw, Hook, and Broca's Aphasia

 Traumatic brain injuries are like snowflakes, they’re all different but still the same. The way I understand TBI, and explain it, is as follows:  TBI patients don’t regain their lost abilities, as much as relearn them.  The section of my brain that told my right hemisphere what to do doesn't work anymore, because of the blow it took.  So the undamaged parts had to learn how to direct the body's right side limbs. It's a new job for that part of my brain, and although I can now use my right leg, arm, hand, fingers etc. they don't work like they once did.

I didn't look into, or research my disabilities, until several years after my TBI, when I began writing about my experience. The frontal lobe is important for voluntary and planned motor behaviors. I was drawn to a list that describes problems associated with injury to the frontal lobe because I had whacked mine pretty hard. The list told me damage there may result in any, or all, of the following
1.  Paralysis 
2.  Inability to sequence
3.  Loss of spontaneity in interacting with others
4.  Perseverance on a single thought
5.  Inability to focus and express language (Broca's Aphasia.

When I woke from my coma I was certainly paralyzed, on the right side.  But, I came away from the hospital able to walk with a loft strand cane; the tall cane with a strap around the upper arm, midway between the shoulder and elbow, and a horizontal handle to grasp, below the strap.   My right side motor skills function now, but not like they once did.  There is a delay somewhere in my circuits so I limp.  And the hitch in my get along is such that I can no longer run.

They also worked to get my right arm, hand and fingers moving again.  That was occupational therapy's (OT''s) primary goal. I started by manipulating large blocks, and moved to puzzles with large pieces, like my own kids had among their toys.  OT deals with being productive, and I was a housewife, so they must have assumed I baked.  One session of occupational therapy dealt with following a recipe, as well as cutting an apple with a sharp knife.  My family thought the whole activity was crazy because therapists had me holding an apple with one hand, and wielding a sharp knife in my compromised hand!  Today, I am apt to warn everyone in close proximity that I have a knife in my bad hand, and to stay clear!     

If they thought I could cut an apple with my affected hand, why didn't they think I would be able to write with it?  I know they didn't, because they tried to teach me to write left handed, just before my release. I never came close to proficient, and no one could read my chicken scratches, but I continued my left handed scrawl after leaving the hospital because that is what I was told to do. I am, at heart, a rule follower.

My legibility never did improve, and during my 1st year home, the young son of friends visiting, watched me struggle to write notes to myself.  Robert said to me, Why don’t you just try to write with your right hand?

Why didn’t I think of that?  I wondered.  And then I attempted to finish with my right hand. Bingo!   My left hand knew how to assist the other by holding/turning the paper, and my right hand knew how to form the letters.  It took much concentration, at first, but the letters were more legible, and the task was much easier than with my left hand. Over the years, I have gotten pretty good.

I can type now, too.  But, to use both hands and all ten fingers  is very slow and laborious. So, throughout the years, I have perfected unorthodox typing skills.  Mostly, I utilize my fully functional left hand.  My right pointer finger is relegated to hunt and peck, and usually hovers above the right shift key, for capitalization. 

Because my right hemisphere does not work like it did previously, I have come up with tricks to use the disability to my advantage. It is most comfortable for my right fist to be closed and that arm pulled up to my shoulder. My hand remains closed, without thought, so it’s easy to hold things that are easy to lose; like the pencil you need for quick notes, correct change for the snack machine, or the keys to… anything.  Nothing, and I mean nothing, will cause me to inadvertently release whatever I hold in the claw, and once there it will stay indefinitely.  

Also, because my elbow is naturally bent, I can slip the handles of many grocery bags onto the hook, and as long as I even out the weight by carrying something comparable on the left side, I am fairly balanced.  I guess I could say, One really does have to look for opportunities to best utilize what they have, rather than focus on what is missing, but I really was just trying to make my life easier.

Number 2 on the list is inability to sequence, and it continues to be difficult. I had cognitive therapy to deal with this. Those sessions included playing Where in the World is Carmon San Diego on the computer.  I don’t forget the steps involved, as much as I misjudge how long each step will take me. It can take me an inordinately long time to do something I think should be done in a jiffy.  So planning a meal where the food is ready to eat all at once, is not one of my stronger skills.  I’m sure that my head injury plays into that, but I also realize that the desire is not really there.  Hunger is something I rarely feel, but I do eat, and cleaning up, after the meal, is what I am best at.  It’s routine. 

The 3rd thing listed is loss of spontaneity when reacting with others.  This was never a problem, that's how strange TBI's are.  My difficulty is that I am impulsive; I vocalize what is going through my mind, at any given time.  During a physical therapy session with Kyle, I looked across the room at Jim, a therapist who often assisted when more than two hands were needed.  I simply stated, Jim needs a haircut, as his hair was floppy long. You could say my comment was inappropriate, as well as arbitrary, but it brought a smile to Kyle’s face, nonetheless.  He even laughed aloud!  Kyle told me later that my comment showed him I was finally coming around.

Next on the list is perseverance on a single thought.  Although I was always driven to complete what I started, I don't find that to be true anymore. But, I think the perseverance indicated here has more to do with  focusing  on only one unimportant issue, and has a slightly negative connotation.  All I can say about this is that I probably do it, more often than I think, and I know I still struggle with letting things things go.

The list concludes with the inability to focus and express language.  Aphasia is defined by Webster’s Dictionary as …a loss or impairment of the power to use or comprehend words usually resulting from brain damage. Broca's area is in the lower part of the left frontal lobe (exactly where my head was hit) therefore it is called Broca’s Aphasia.  It feels good to know their is a name for what has plagued me since 1991.

The frontal lobe controls the motor aspects of speech so that’s why, especially early on, my speech was halting, and mono tone.  Speech therapy, then, was also part of my daily regimen.  Once home, the daily conversations with my family provided the practice I would need to sound more normal.  I spoke easily to my two young children, and later, I was comfortable talking to my fifth grade students.  Even though my speech definitely improved over the years, I still hate to hear my recorded voice.

My inflection may be right, and I'm not as mono tone as I once was but I’m still a step behind verbally, struggling sometimes to find the words I want.  I know the word is very familiar but I can’t locate it. I pause, as if thinking deeply on the subject when all I’m really doing is rifling through the files in my head for the simple, much-used word I need.  It can feel like I’m wading through sludge trying to reach it.

Close friends, who know my history and feel comfortable with me, often fill-in-the-blank with the word I am searching for.  They are not surprised when I say Can you flip that thing on the wall so that… poof?  They know that I am referring to the light switch, and that I’d like the lights turned on.  Or I give the a brief definition of the word just out of reach and they provide the word.

Not only was my brain's left frontal lobe damaged, the brain stem also took a shot. That's why I see double.  But since my TBI, I've had two eye surgeries.  When I started to drive again, I  wore an eye patch. I didn't want to be caught trying to determine whether the car coming straight towards me, was the real image or not.  I don't  wear the patch, anymore, because now I only see double if I'm very tired or just want to. 

Sometimes I like to show people my weird eyes.  I cover one eye, focus with the other, then uncover the covered eye because then my pupils jump around.   Both of my eyes work, but they don't work together, is how I explain it.  My right eyeball does most of the work, and focuses on what I'm looking at.  My left eyeball looks off to left, but it still can visualize things that are to the right.  It doesn't appear to be looking at what it should be focused on until the right eye is closed.  It's as if my eyes have a brain of their own, that I'm not in control of.

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. 

Coffee & Back to Back With One Large 8th Grade Boy

my cross country co-coach Kris

How does a disabled (traumatic brain injured) woman coach cross country?  She rides a 3-wheel recumbent bike, always.  This is a post about coaching, and some bad stuff that has happened because of my brain, or as my oldest brother would say, Lack thereof.  

On the last day of cross country practice, the team runs to Costco for a treat.  We arrive with 30 plus athletes and so many kids at one time is always a shock. We certainly don't want to be those coaches that show up with a bunch of unruly middle schoolers, so we stress good behavior... a lot.  We impress staff, as well as Costco shoppers!

The trip back to the school is not easy, because the kids are trying to juggle their pop, or ice cream things, and can't really run till they are done.  My co coach (the best guy ever,) never gets anything, but I always get a coffee frappe; frozen flavored coffee drink.  It's our last practice anyway, so we do a kind of run/walk shuffle thing most of the way back.

We have to cross an empty lot between two streets to get there, and one street is about 5 feet above the other.  On the way, the kids have to go up a trail, and on the return trip, they run down the path.

Remember, I have the frappe in hand on my cool trike, and I reach the path I have to ride down.  Mind you, I have coached cross country at KMS for many years, and we have taken the same route a bazillion times.  This time, I stopped at the top of the path, and considered putting the drink in my drink holder. Imagine that!  But, the holder sits at an angle and I didn't want to take the chance of the frappe bouncing out, on the trip down. I figured I could hold the cup, while gripping the handle bar to steer.

Consequently, down is exactly where I went, coffee flying!  Almost immediately my tire turned 45 degrees, and the trike flipped to its side.  It felt like slow motion, but eventually I landed hard on my left shoulder.  An x ray revealed I had separated it, but my movement or strength in certain areas did not point to rotater cuff problems.  But I was still in pain several months later so I had an MRI and finally, surgery.

That's my brain injury, to not really think things thru before execution... I can use that excuse, I earned it!

Not so fast - forward to spring track.  For the first 2 weeks, my arm was still in a sling (bike fall in cross country.) We have about 160 kids.  160, 7th and 8th grade boys and girls (can you feel my fear?) They were is lines of 6-8, spread across the football field the long way, and I had to get to the coach running the drills, on the far side.  As I hobbling out in front of the kids I told them not to run me over or knock me down.  But when I was almost to my destination, I turned away from the kids just as the drill changed to backwards running.

A good sized 8th grade boy, running backward at full speed, ran directly into me, and because I had just tuned, his back hit my back.  Needless to say, I went down (again) and I went down hard.  I'm lucky I was on a grass football field, because I did absolutely nothing to slow my fall.  One arm was tucked safely covering my middle, and the other arm, well, it's on my affected side and it's reactions are simply slow, and awkward.

So, no arms flew up to assist, and I caught the ground with the bridge of my nose, directly.  Well, once you've had a head injury, the likelihood of a blow to the head causing more damage, is always present.   I was stunned, my glasses dug into my face in various places, my face was bleeding, but I hadn't lost consciousness, so I figured I was OK.  The other coaches gathered around me, while one coach herded the kids away from me.

Coach Elliot escorted me to the bathroom in the school to clean up, and I drove myself (after we assessed the situation) to a medical facility for gluing, as opposed to stitching.

I didn't make it back to practice, but I did the next day, sporting purple eyes and a few small facial lacerations.  The bruises have all faded but now I'm wondering how many Worker's Comp claims I'm allowed before KMS asks me to go get hurt on my own.

Lexie Who?

The time line is unclear, but I remember seeing my new friend’s cousin in the Seattle airport while travelling to/from, Montana/Washington State.  It had been years since I had seen him, but I recognized him immediately.  He was travelling with his young family, and was rounding up an errant toddler as I approached.  I made eye contact, and said his full name in a questioning manner.  Yeah, that’s me… He replied.

It’s me, Lexie!  I spat out excitedly. 

Lexie who?  He asked, and as he spoke I could tell he never outgrew the cute lisp he had as a child.

But I couldn’t hide my confusion; How many Lexies do you know?

Now, I may have just thought that was the question I should have asked, but I probably just sputtered Miller?  I was Miller when we knew each other!

Then the recognition came, I could see it on his face, but he just laughed, like he had been joking the whole time. He introduced me to his wife and kids, as an unbelievable skier.  That’s when I knew for sure he remembered correctly. We spent winter weekends together for what seems like years. No, we were never an item, we were simply skiing buddies.  My best friend and I would get to the ski hill by brothers, or bus, and we would meet up with the cousin and his friend, or friends, and spend the day together carving through mogels, shush bombing jeep trails, and jumping off natural cornices.  

I have skied since my TBI, twice, and probably just to prove to myself, I was still capable. The sport that had never been difficult, ever, kicked my butt.  It was a hell of a lot of work, and the kind of physical work I had no memory of; at least not in terms of skiing. I made a conscious decision to not ski again.  Also, it wasn't worth hurting myself.  

Now that I’m back in my home town, I see the cousin often, and we tell others the story of meeting in the Seattle Airport, over, and over again. And we still laugh.

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 :)

And Again...

It happened.

Flipping through Pinterest, (Pinterest = magazine) I stop on a Christmas treat and think, I've see this before.

The recipe called for popped corn, M and M's, pretzel pieces and vanilla candy melt.  I immediately remember Yeah, !  I was goon make this and get those real cute bags I saw at...

But, because I had just written about my unrealistic plans, I stopped and thought,  Oh, this just happened.  Hmm?  It didn't end well either.  I then made a conscious decision to not continue planning, and I turned the page.

Wow!  Add to Reasons for Blogging:  Assists Head-Injured in recalling embarrassing moments Just in Time