Driving Ms. Shirley

Mom recently took a fall and chipped a piece off her hip; the same hip she broke last February.  An X-ray showed the chip and a physicians' assistant (PA)  gave her the news. She refers to PAs as paras (probably because I worked as a special ed para educator.)  And because she knows it irritates me.

The Para tested her strength in the compromised leg and told her she shouldn't drive anymore.  I know, it's devastating to be told you can't drive, right?  It must make you feel so dependent, and almost trapped.  So, I was glad she had discovered this just as she was leaving for Oregon to visit grown children.  I knew, even before she left, that I needed to extract the key while she was gone, but the thievery didn't weigh too heavy on my mind. (What does that say about me?)

Just as we were loading up for the airport, she reached for her keys to pack them into her gigantic purse.  Quickly, I told her she wouldn't need them as I'd be picking her up when she came back. Three different attempts were thwarted, before we left.  The next day I returned to her house and nabbed the key.

She returned from Oregon, but didn't notice the  key was missing for a few days.  When she did, she phoned, incredulous about where it could be. I had my confession rehearsed, so it came splashing out and included all of the following.

• The para had tested her left leg strength and told her not to drive!
• All of my siblings had told me to do it!  (Boy, isn't that a wimpy excuse?)
• She really hadn't driven much recently.
• I'm just across the street and would drive her anywhere she wanted to go.
• It would leave room in her garage to go through unpacked boxes for the impending garage sale.(At that point, I was reaching for just about any up-side.)

After the initial shock, she recovered from the loss of driving privileges fairly well.  I told her we could trade in both of our cars, and get ourselves a new Subaru that would be safer.  She was thrilled with that idea and so a new Forester is how we tool around town.  She loves the car, and is quick to say so, each and every time we get into it, which is about 3 times a week, maybe more.

But to her, the Audi was the finest car she had ever driven, and continues by saying that driving a manual was the only way a driver could feel the car.  Hopefully she can feel the new Forester from the passenger seat, because all we want is to keep her safe,

Chapter 6 Home

The end of my stay in the 2nd hospital came sooner than anticipated.  There was a scramble with my insurance company to get the money to stay longer, but we lost. The doctor, therapists, my family, and husband didn't think I was ready to go home. And to tell you the truth, I didn't either.  In my final psychiatric session I revealed the fears I had about leaving the hospital. The doc was pleased that I was frightened, and explained my fear was evidence that I had grip on my situation.

How was I going to get up and down my stairs?  Would I be able to care for my kids?  Could I clean my house, or mow the lawn like I always had?  I remembered a trip into the desert to gather landscape rocks with my neighbor, and still thought there would be a time when I might do that again.

My family packed up my room; the get well cards, empty vases and every pillow I used during my stay.  A nurse told my parents, She paid for them, she might as well keep them.  The were flat, dead pillows with a lot of bad memories clinging to them and, soon after I got home, I threw them away.

My husband went through the same How questions I had, but he simply hired a nanny to care for the kids and I until more recovery was evident.  Claire, the nanny he hired, was here illegally from England, the relative of one of the agency's employees.  We were near Los Angeles so aliens without papers were nothing new to us. Hiring her was safer than the older woman with tuberculosis, our only other option.  So I went home, after almost 4 months, and I now had an English Nanny, to boot!  

Clair cooked, cleaned and also cared for my kids as I attended outpatient rehab. Overall she was fine, but I was appalled when I learned she taught my children, who still rode in car seats, to raise a hand above the back seat and flip the bird to rude drivers behind the car. It was NOT the way I handled road rage! I think she also played pool in seedy bars on her days off.  But I didn't have much to do with her, she was my husband's hire and I was using every ounce of energy is an attempt to navigate a new world with with compromises I wasn't even aware, at that time, I had.

My parents were there for my release from the hospital, and my ex prepared a surprise party at our favorite restaurant.  I was not in anyway capable of interacting with a roomful of friends and family, so I was guided to my place at a table and people came to me to congratulate me on 1) my survival 2) my returning home and 3) my perfect, gleaming white smile.

I went to a house across the street from Northridge (my 2nd hospital) for rehab. I spent my days there practicing real life, and continuing therapies I started at Northridge. My husband dropped me off before his work day, and then picked me up to take me home at the day's end.  He packed lunches for me that included frozen hamburgers and I relearned how to use a microwave oven. I also had to interact with other patients, as well as the therapists.

Physical therapy sessions also happened at The House, and the equipment included a smallish Universal Gym that I recognized from my high school years.  My long term memories were there, it was my short term memory that was shot.  There wasn't much I could do on that little, all encompassing gym, though, with 1/2 my body compromised. So I started a tactic, (I have used ever since that moment,) to navigate through life; I figured out how to do things differently, using my compromised body however I could. 

When I tried push ups, I could not fully open, and lay my hand flat on the floor as the exercise requires. Even though I wore a brace to keep my bad hand open at night  (and remind my brain, HEY! Relax that hand. Therapists continued to encourage me to lay my hand flat but it was virtually impossible.  So there I was, struggling to achieve the proper hand position when I noticed a the young man next to me. He was a high school athlete, football quarterback I think, who had suffered a head injury too.  Football really is a violent game.  And he was also doing push ups.  

His athletic brain had made the correct accommodation.  One of his hands remained in a fist while he pushed up from the prone position on the floor.  They weren't even trying to get him to do it properly, so I thought I'd give it a try.  When I was able to achieve the needed position, but was too weak to actually push myself up, I remembered that I hadn't been able to do a push ups in many years!

At the house, I also continued playing the computer game Where in the World is Carmen San Diego for cognition. But when my children were old enough to play that particular game, I had only fleeting memories of the game I had once mastered.  Or maybe I hadn't mastered it, and only thought I did.  When I played at Northridge no one checked on me, and I don't remember changing levels, or winning for that matter.

I was fortunate that I was able to stay at home for OT (occupational therapy) because my therapist from the hospital lived near me.  Not necessarily close, but we both lived in California's high desert, which was quite a distance from Northridge.  She agreed to make OT house calls at the end of her work day.  Occupational therapy has to do with being productive in your job, but I was a stay at home mom so my job was running the home.  A huge part of what I did was caring for the kids and getting them fed so she taught me how to make mac and cheese for their dinner.  I hadn't looked at those directions for what seemed like forever, but now I needed to, and I actually had to time the noodles!

She also got me on the floor cleaning tiles in the kitchen because I told her that is how I had done it pre head injury.  Let me say for the record, before my TBI I fit in the OCD category of housekeepers.  No longer, however.  She should have showed me ways to compromise with a Swiffer!!!  Oh, those probably weren't around yet.

She was a help, don't get me wrong, but when I look back on those days I think that I would have benefitted for help dealing with my compromised condition.  Occasionally I feel like the expectation, regarding my recovery was that it would be complete since they were teaching me to do things the way I had did prior to my accident.  

I never did return to that place, physically, or mentally.  And I wonder if I didn't work hard enough.  But then I tell myself I did my best...and I am happy.

Birdie in Boise

Dan and I went to Boise at Christmas to see my children.  I've returned to Boise several times after moving back home to Montana.  First, it was during the summer since I was still working in the school district and I drove alone, over Lolo Pass, taking the scenic route.  I always took that way because it is the way I know (the head injury aspect) but now that Dan drives we take freeways.  We stayed in motels and spent 2 days getting there, and 2 days returning, so it was vacation-like.

All the motels we stayed in had pools, because I love swimming.  Wait, those of you who know me, realize I can't actually swim.  So I guess it's being in water, floundering about, floundering about, that I love. Even in Boise, we stayed in a hotel.  I love both my children but it was nice for them, and us, to have our own space. There's also the fact that one of my kids live in a house with stairs, not a favorite. And not just stairs, but stairs everywhere you turn! And the other child has 2 dogs, 2 cats, and usually an easy-to-fall-in love-with foster animal of some sort.  The foster animal is there because my son's significant other works for the humane society, but Brittany is really the epitome of an animal whisperer.  It's not a great place for someone with allergies to stay, but I love my visits with the grand pets Dexter, Dante, Dre and Daeni.

The foster pet was a real problem this time.  I fell in love with Birdie, a tiny puppy of chihuahua/ miniature pincher mix.  Her enormous ears stood straight up and were almost as big as her head, so it looked like she was ready to take flight.  She had a bad case of kennel cough, though, and snuggled on my lap every minute I was in their home. She even cozied up to Dan!   Dan's cat, Tooncis, (named for Saturday Night Live's cat that could drive,) loves him, but I remain the extra person in the room. He'll occasionally glance at me as if to say, sOh, till here huh?

Well, because Birdie was sick I couldn't take her, but we loved on her whenever she was available. Soon after we arrived home Brittany let me know that Birdie had flown to that big dog party in the sky.  She said the Vet had determined that she wasn't thriving, and along with the cough, she probably had distemper.  Brittany was positive about the whole thing, and said in her final times Birdie felt a lot of love, from many people,  I'm glad that we were part of her short life.

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 Five- Those Things I Haven't forgotten

FYI - I may be repeating myself as I continue, and I'm sorry about that but I'm trying to throw in strange little happenings that have remained in my damaged brain all these years.  
TBI is traumatic brain injury.

As you know, my little boy, Harrison, was in the back seat when the accident occurred. His sister Rachel was at Ms Judy's preschool at the time, and we didn't make it to pick her up. Ms. Judy phoned my friend Linda who knew immediately that something had gone wrong. I was to retrieve both of our kids, and ferry them, along with Harrison, to Linda’s house. When she got the call from Ms Judy, Linda quickly picked up the girls and waited to hear about me. But she kept the kids busy and happy until there was news. We were fortunate that Rachel had someplace not-too-out-of-the-ordinary to be, and good people to care for her.

But, let’s go back to the scene of the accident for a minute.  The one of the highway patrolman who responded to the accident, recognized my name, and because he was acquainted with my mother-in-law (don’t ask me how) he phoned her.  That’s some crazy stuff, because Southern California is quite populated.  

A strange thing happened at the hospital too. Amid the chaos at the accident scene, my purse was left in my car and I couldn't be identified.  But my next door neighbor worked in some capacity there, and identified me. She just happened to see me arrive!  I can only imagine her shock at seeing her next door neighbor strapped to a gurney, broken jaw agape.  As neighbors we were fairly friendly; they had been to our house for dinner, and us to their home. They had 2 daughters, and the older one actually baby sat for us. I remember her obligatory welcome home/get better soon when I returned home, but I don't remember seeing her again. 

TBIs are all different, not easily understood, and the unknown is frightening.  Well wishers hesitate when they learn a family member, or friend has suffered a TBI. Most people don't even have the rudimentary knowledge needed to ask relevant questions.  But that's OK, because the majority of TBI victims, their families and good friends are clueless too!  Unfortunately, often TBI victims are simply crossed off lists; friend lists, employment lists, family-members-to-invite lists, all kind of lists.  

Like favorite coaches from the past, Kyle brought out the best in me.  One session, an afternoon late into my stay at Northridge, they filmed Kyle and I working together.  The film was to be used in training sessions for physical therapists. We went through a sequence of events that were close to routine, and It was a wrap, after one take.  I wheeled myself back to my room using my feet, and good arm to get there. Not then, but much later, I realized that my physical therapist and I were Rehab Stars, and our video contribution would help the physical therapists working with the head injured and stroke victims that came after me. Now, I can count that as the first positive thing that came from my accident.

My Ex always said that I began to realize the crappy situation I was in when I arrived at Northridge Hospital. As they rolled my wheelchair by the mirrored wall next to the door, he saw me turn to look at myself, and when what I saw registered in my not-quite-right brain, a look of shock appeared on my face.  But, it was close to 1/2 year before I comprehended the dire position I was in, and the work it would take to become even close to the person I had been.

The photo my dad had put in my therapist Kyle's hands (the one of me hurdling, and probably winning,) showed that I could work hard.  But, I was now facing  an entirely different kind of hard work.  The hard work I did back then did lead to my induction into the Univ of Oregon Hall of Fame, primarily because my 400 meter hurdle school record, set in the early 90s, still stands.  I shocked my friends and family a couple of times by saying that the induction came because they felt sorry for me, because of my TBI.

The kind of hard work I was now facing would hopefully lead to 1) utilization of my paralyzed right hemisphere so that I could walk  2)  better cognitive skills so that I could continue running my household and 3)  acceptance of the new Me. 

I could have ended up in a wheelchair, or in some kind of a group home, had I not rallied to the challenge in front of me.  But I accepted it subconsciously as I have no memories of voicing my desire to work hard, to relearn what had been lost when I hit my head, and to come out of this a complete, contributing person, but it must have been somewhere in the scrambled grey matter.

While I was at Northridge lots of things happened.  My husband saw me daily.   My sister-in-law's elementary school class wrote me get well cards that papered my hospital room's walls, and I was ready for more visitors.  One visit stands out.  My husband brought my not-quite-5 year old daughter, Rachel, to visit and he simply set her on my bed beside me.  I think he probably said something like, It'll be OK, be back soon, but then he was gone. Rachel was in an unfamiliar, strange smelling place, with a dingy mom who was neither physically, or mentally capable of caring for her.  I remember being terrified!  Looking back, I guess I may not have been as dingy as I thought because I came up with, Is he a lunatic?  I was becoming better aware of my sad predicament, but I still did not comprehend what was in store for me, and my family.

Sitting next to me on my hospital bed, Rachel simply watched TV, and her Dad quickly returned with a Happy Meal.  She enjoyed her burger and fries, and I looked on, not realizing at the time, how the accident had traumatized her.