In Memory Of

A few weeks back my family traveled to Parrsboro Nova Scotia.  We were attending a memorial service for Geraldine Canning.  Geraldine was the mother of a very dear friend of ours, Debby.  Debby was our neighbor when we live in Texas.  Her son is our daugher's age and her daughter is our son's age.  The kids grew up together for over five years.  We got to know Geraldine when she would come visit over different holidays and she became like another grandmother for our children.  Later, after we moved to Montreal our families would visit each other and eventually our kids would meet up with Debby and her gang in Parrsboro each summer.  Not a bad place to vacation. 

So we knew Geraldine as a grandmother and a friend and this is why we wished to be part of the memorial service. 

Apparently we weren't the only ones who held her near and dear.  The church service was standing room only.  This alone spoke to me of her life and her effect on people.  We never knew much of her life before she entered ours.  We had no idea of the nursing work she did during the Springhill mine disasters of 1956 and 1958.  We only knew of her as the warm heart who welcomed us into her home, played cards and took walks with the kids.  People can be famous for many different reasons, and those with money can attract crowds, but those who live life my giving love to all are loved in return. 

I have to tell you this.  After the service refreshments were served in the Hall adjacent to the church.  My wife and I were standing close to each other talking when a woman walked up to us and since were were not natives of the town asked my wife how we knew Geraldine.  My wife started to tell the woman that we were old neighbors of Geraldine's daughter when we live in... the woman turned and looked right at me and said.  "You are the accident survivor.  Geraldine had us praying for you since the day of your accident."

When Geraldine was not practicing the art of nursing people back to health with her hands she was nudging the man upstairs.  My hat is off to Geraldine, and all those who follow her lead.

I had to give the woman a hug.  It was all I could give in return.

A New Day and A New Book

I haven't posted in a long, long time. 

Why?  You might ask if you have been paying attention.

Because I have been very, very busy. 

Doing what?  Again, the ball was in your court.

Writing my next book.  Or finishing it rather.  And getting a manager, and having an editor do their dirty work and cleaning up the mess the editor made and getting ready to get the book out the door, once the reviewers are finished with it. 

Two reviews are already in, and they are both positive.  Two more and we'll be ready to roll.

Below is the Press Release from Donna Ink Publications:

dpInk: DonnaInk Publications signs Author Saverio Monachino's newest book release

dpInk announced signing of Saverio Monachino newest novel. A riveting story involving terrorism and political intrigue set against a brain injured protagonist involved in the Arthurian mythos.

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Saverio Monachino Author of Waves of Joy

PRLog (Press Release) – Jul 12, 2011 – dpInk announced the signing Saverio Monachino's newest novel, Waves of Joy. Donna L. Quesinberry, Principal Agent and Publisher of DonnaInk Publications. announced successful negotiation - signing Saverio Monachino and his latest novel. This spellbinding tale. involves terrorism and political intrigue. It is set against a brain injured protagonist with high-stakes drama riddled throughout the work.

When describing himself, this 12-year veteran author states. “I’m a scientist or at least I was a scientist.” And, by trade he was a very accomplished scientist with his PhD; however, life’s challenges accompanied by a twist of fate delivered Saverio to a more compelling reality. His true passion of writing and reveling in the creative complexities of the human condition, took the place of his scientific career, as Saverio is a TBI (Traumatic Brain Injury) Survivor.

Monachino’s latest novel is full of rich complexities and delivered in a fast-paced page-turning panache. The work carries readers through intricately woven, yet surprising paths of discovery. An unwavering consistency threads us through a fascinating journey tinted with humor and insightful asides. There are no works in the marketplace at this time, which hold a candle to Waves of Joy. This is truly an inimitable story where adventure, terrorism, political intrigue and brain injury survivorism hold reader senses up to the very unpredictable finale. This work remains steadfast in a conscionable plot filled with realism and seasoned with mysticism.

"A stealth achievement by Saverio Monachino," states Ms. Quesinberry. Who adds, “Waves of Joy – is an amazing story, keeping our readers on the edge of their seats as the protagonist(s) venture through a series of realistic interludes set against modern-day societal threats. The work is an achievement of a gifted pen wielded by a competent TBI Survivor, Scientist and PhD. Reading Waves of Joy - we laugh, we cry, we are mystified and we learn more about TBI care and survival as sub-plots. This work of excellence is being prepared for release fall 2011.”

dpInk: DonnaInk Publications intends to release Waves of Joy in early fall of 2011 in multiple industry channels including digital, soft and hardcover. This title will be available on multiple e-Readers and Mobile devices.

How to Speak French Without Really Trying.

To Really Speak a Language You Must Think in That Language

Of course I don’t remember too many specifics about the early stages of rehabilitation.  But I did take notes.  Unfortunately the notes were strewn over several binders and folders, and worse, they were not all dated.  Now, was this a problem with my TBI, that is; not remembering to organize my efforts, or a byproduct of my stream of consciousness processing.  Hard to say.  I always had trouble with notes before the accident (hated taking them), and you must admit, if you take time to write down notes you tend to loose the speaker's train of thought.  Whatever the reason, I do not have much with respect to written reminders of the first few weeks in rehab.  Then, as I became a frequent visitor, I tried to assimilate into the system and at that point I do have better documentation, however, as I progressed and my desire to end this stage of my life took control, I tended to participate in the lectures (without being asked) and so the note taking waned.

What I do remember, I would walk up and down the hallways between my different appointments and speak to myself in..., French.  Now I do know a few words of this language as I did learn a bit in high school and had to take a semester or two in college, but speak the language, no; I think not.  I also spent three years in Québec where Québécois can be both the people and the language but even during working hours surrounded by those who spoke English as a second language I never ‘thought’ in French.    As some of the sessions on brain function were presented I began to understand, why that was and it is amazing what structures of understanding and utility cognitive nodes can accomplish with the barriers they set in place, or perhaps when the barriers are taken down.  Thinking in French was not the extent of the open doors I explored.  It was like meditation on the superhighway to wherever I wanted to travel.  So many of the issues that were ‘news’ of the day were tackled from an incredible perspective and the answers to the worlds problems were right there in front of me, so easy to grasp and all I had to do was ….

Therein lay the problem; How to communicate my findings.  Was this why I was in rehab?  I had to believe there was a reason for walking the halls in an out of the way building in small town in New Jersey, they were going to listen to me, translate and so help the world as a whole, which was, by the way, something I always dreamed of doing.

 

As I mentioned in the last posting, I first arrived at the Kessler Institute as an outpatient in the second week of January 2008 which was, roughly speaking, a week or so after I was discharged from the rehabilitation hospital.  Again, I had no idea what was really about to happen.  I did have an understanding that physical therapy was on order, and that I knew I was in need of.  Occupational therapy, whatever that is, was scheduled in, but the most difficult exposure for me was going to be ‘quality’ time with Erin, a very young woman, who was going to help me …, what?  Talk again?  Well I did want to communicate my ideas, and at the time I was full of them, so was she going to act as my translator?  I tried to keep a positive attitude as I approached my first session with her.  I think (though I cannot remember this exactly) that my wife came to the first session with me and I did find one page of notes dated January 11 (2008).

So what did we do; Discuss the political races, some of the primaries were underway after all, and the hints of the financial crisis overseas (a recession of global dimensions) were beginning to stream into our own country, what about the suicide bombings in Baghdad, the tribal violence in Kenya, something, anything?  NO.

Instead I was given letters and asked to name all the words that began with that letter.  I was so pissed off.  Is this why I could only think of a few words for each letter?  When that game was over we moved on to a more difficult assignment.  I was to listen to short segments of dialog:

Hi this is Dianna, I have a message for….

Call me after 5:00 o’clock… Bye

 and then I had to answer questions about each story. 

So many people were suffering in the world at large, so many people were in need of better leadership, so much of the structure of our society was changing by the minute and I had to answer questions about …., I went home crying that day.

Phase Two: Rehabilitation.

Where to Start?

I’ve thought long and hard on how to put the next nine months in any semblance of order.  First, like the previous month, my memory of events is, at best, sporadic.  Luckily though I have some notes.  Yes, that is right, I actually kept a bunch of notes that I took while in different segments of my rehab and, of course, the mounds of homework we were assigned.  So now I can, at my leisure, read them again and…, try to make sense out of the situation.  But to start at the beginning of this phase of my life I will skip to the end and cut and paste part of a thank you letter and, an apology of sorts that I wrote to Julie, the woman who was, more or less, head of the cognitive rehabilitation section of my treatment schedule. 

I first arrived at the Kessler Institute as an outpatient in the second week of January 2008 which was, roughly speaking, a week or so after I was discharged from the Rehabilitation Institute.  I had no idea what was really about to happen.  I did have an understanding that physical therapy was on order and that I knew I was in need of.  At the time it was hard for me to walk fast without fear of falling.  I still had no inclination to climb stairs and the left side of my body was very, very stiff, especially in the left shoulder area (and neck).  I did not know what occupational therapy was, or that I was being scheduled in, but the most difficult exposure for me was going to be ‘quality’ time with a very young woman (Erin) who was going to help me …, what?  Talk again?  I had no idea, and how could someone with my background be forced to sit with what appeared to me to be a teenager so that the youngster could grade my progress.  Boy was I pissed off…, I looked across the hallway and there was a group of adults seemingly having an interesting discussion on something (anything) but I was sitting down in a room with this young girl who was telling me how to… I’ll let the ‘apology’ letter take it from here.  This letter was written in late July of 2008, just a few weeks before my discharge from the rehab program…, so now I have to wonder, did I write it to make sure they let me go?  Anyway, have a look, and let me know what you think.

Dear Julie,

It is always hard for someone laden with (or is that dominated by) male ego to put the appropriate words upon the parchment.  But herein is my effort. 

I want (need) to thank the entire Institute, those that I came into direct contact with (some of whose names I can actually remember) and the rest of the organization that has put such an effective team in place.

First I must tell you how sorry I am for any behavior I may have exhibited towards Erin, for any angst I may have caused her.  Of course it is my fault, not hers, and on many days I attempted to gather enough courage to apologize to her in person, but for various reasons (cowardice being number one) I chickened out.  My case was placed on her desk well before my cortex had a chance to re-assimilate in the direction of reality, and without the buffer zone in place it is hard for someone with an ego as large as mine to behave appropriately.

Julie, as I remember from our first tête-à-tête (this I do remember), Erin wasn’t the only one I pissed off.  You did the right thing and gave me a piece of your mind and that, of course, helped me figure out a new game plan; A plan to help me survive in the ‘Brave New World’ in which I existed.  But seriously, you are a bit older than Erin, so you had a good, better, experienced response to someone in my state.

In the early days, I had the most success with those who were not challenging me to re-establish my cognitive processes.  PT was, in my mind at the time, the most important issue and therefore my time there was very important.  That is why I want to thank John and Aaron and Cindy and Leigh and the blond girl who I had most often but can never remember her name (my memory still isn’t, and probably never will be, functioning normally).  They were all positive help for a man who couldn’t walk well when he started. 

I also have to thank Doug in OT.  I had some of the others in OT, like Catherine, but there were so many different workers in and out who helped me in a sporadic fashion that I tend to meld their names together, or like Aaron’s wife’s, people I know but whose names I cannot keep in my head.  Doug I remember well.  He always seemed to treat me like a human being, even on day one.  It may have been his special training, or just a productive embellishment of his normal personality.  Whatever the reason, from day one I felt safe being around him and I have always believed that his efforts helped me adapt to being at Kessler.

Now for the CRP (Cognitive Rehabilitation Program) group.  Obviously it wasn’t a walk in the park for me, or for your group, in the beginning (we can ask Erin about that, eh?), but as I’ve said many times in our ‘family’ meetings, it is beyond my ability to work constantly with people in a one-on-one environment.  Since it was beyond my ability before the accident, it added to my awe as I watched the Kessler people go about their daily work. 

Without sounding negative against any one type of session, I have to say at various times I enjoyed particular sessions more than others because they allowed me, or helped me, to figure out exactly where I stood in the grand scheme of things.  People with my ego have to figure things out for themselves.  I remember the psychologist Tom, the one who moved out to ND (or thereabouts).  He helped explain issues relating to the cerebral cortex, such as it needs to re-engage itself after an accident and just like that I began to understand so much of my own inabilities at the time.  Understanding is an important component of the ‘settling-down’ process and once ‘settled’ the ability to ‘re-engage’ takes place so much more efficiently.  And of course, once I settled down I could appreciate all that you, Jane, Denise and Basil were trying to accomplish.  It sometimes takes a while to get one’s brain to adjust to the circumstances, and I am sorry for the amount of time it took mine.  But then, of course, if I took a group of Kessler instructors along to work with me for a few days, my thinking is I would have a few people less than happy being outside their normal environment too (a joke).

What I always found most rewarding during my sessions at Kessler was the ability to sit and talk with the other survivors.  This type of interaction builds camaraderie of sorts and allows one to see that they are not alone, and therefore, the problems that have befallen, do not make one totally unique.  Most importantly, as the conversations I had with the others became deeper, I found myself trying to find a way to wiggle out from under the rock; that I was capable of human understanding, and was able to extend human emotions outside myself once again.

This leads to the sessions that I found most interesting and those were when Karen (Dr. Tennyson), whose name I will remember forever because I had to memorize ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ oh so long ago, was leading the group.  I also think that another psychologist (Sherry?) worked in a similar fashion when she returned recently to the Institute.  Group sessions, I’ve found out, are very helpful when you are trying to get people to rebuild their mental capacities, as sessions with you and Jane proved.  They are also very good when trying to get people to understand and overcome their psychological handicaps.  I also feel it is easier to overcome issues with problematic cognitive processes than it is to ‘fix’ psychological damage, but most importantly one needs to put these issues out into the daylight for a good look.  This helps the incessant need to combat these demons moving forward.  This is what I think Karen’s sessions did for me….

There is a section here in which I spoke about my ‘writing’ but that is not for this posting.  If you want to read more about that, visit my webpage (http://www.comicfictionnoir.com/).

The letter ends with one parting thought:

Finally, no one who has suffered in the fashion that the Kessler patients have will ever return to the way they were before.  What can be hoped is that they return to the real world to try to experience life to their fullest capacity.  I will never be the same person, but I do hope that I will emerge to move positively into my new self.  I have to thank you, and the rest of your team for giving me this chance.

Keep smiling, it means a lot to people like me.

In my next post I will begin to discuss different sessions in the CRP classes.  Stay tuned.

Softly, Deftly, Music Shall Caress You

Today's blog is an honest assessment of a very recent outing.

Hear it, Feel it Secretly Possess You

I am sure that most people will agree; the best dates, the ones you really enjoy, are usually those for which you have no preconceived expectations, you just sit back close your eyes and let “the music of the night” take you …  Yes that is right, we went to see the Phantom of the Opera and without doubt it was the best date my wife and I have been on for a long, long time.  

 What made the show that much more special, that much more enjoyable was the entire ensemble was, without doubt worth their weight in gold. High School students usually are.  It was just last summer that the announcement was made: Andrew Lloyd Weber released the rights to perform “Phantom of the Opera”.   My son’s high school (North Hunterdon) was one of the first in a long, long line of colleges and other high schools that had been waiting…, dreaming…, for a chance to

Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar

And you live as you’ve never lived before

Only in this case they sang as I’ve never heard before in a High School performance.  I would not be surprised if each and every lead awoke on Broadway tomorrow, to standing ovations because the ovations they received when I saw the show were true, after each and every song.

My hat is off to the North Hunterdon High School Theater Organization and to Mrs. Meo for any arm twisting she had to do to get the school behind her and go after the license.  And that of course was only the beginning of her efforts as director.  Luckily help was there from all angles, too numerous to remember if I didn’t have a copy of the program sitting nearby.  Kudos to all of the school and support staff and parents, and the student interns as well as the cast and stage crew.  Getting the singing, dancing, acting, stage props and of course the chandelier in place and on time was…, well it was a work of art.  I have heard many different voices performing these songs in the past but never will I forget the cast on opening night, Taylor, Nicole, Stephen, Michelle, Andrew and all the rest.  Congratulations.

All I had to do was sit back, close my eyes and listen as …

Softly, deftly, music shall caress you

Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you

Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind

In this darkness that you know you cannot fight

The darkness of the music of the night

Musical theater can make for a very memorable date, especially when you are sitting next to your wife, holding hands wiping tears away from each other’s eyes as each emotional song was executed to perfection, and of course thinking of our son Paul who, as assistant director, helped put this work of art in front of our eyes.

If You Don’t Like Crowds

Stay Home.

Well I was home and thankful for that, but now what?  I could walk from room to room on the first floor, and pet the dog, and watch TV.  Two out of three were just like being in the hospital.  But I couldn’t get up the stairs, and now that became my main goal.  But I had to be careful in that regard, very careful.  I could get dizzy very easily and no one was sure yet how I would handle climbing stairs, and to be safe so I wouldn’t try it when no one was around, I was told not to climb.  This is why sitting in my office in front of my computer was out of bounds.  After a few days though someone, not me, remembered to bring the portable downstairs and we set it up on the kitchen table.  Unfortunately, I had forgotten all of my passwords.  So for a while I was definitely limited in this venue, until I could remember where they were all written down which meant someone had to root around upstairs for ‘the list’.  I could read the newspapers online but as mentioned I really couldn’t get into my accounts.  That was okay, I think, because if I could get into them I didn’t really want to as I had no work that needed to be done.  And, like when I was in the hospital I just don't remember much else, especially of the first few days I was home.  It might be because I was mostly sleeping then. 

I do remember some of an event held on my first weekend home.  There was going to be an 80^th birthday party for my wife’s father and it had been planned to be in a restaurant in Philadelphia which is about an hour and a half from our home in New Jersey.  I don’t know exactly when this was planned and so cannot say for sure if the planning spanned time before my accident or was something others had devised when I was not around.  Whatever the planning session encompassed the working version included everyone spending the night in hotel rooms in the city, and then spend more time the next day in downtown Philly.  I think there was a concert scheduled in there somewhere along the line too.  I didn’t know about this, or if I did I had forgotten but, when the topic was raised anew, apparently I let it be known that I wouldn’t be going. 

I just wasn’t comfortable traveling long distances, or eating out in a public place, or heaven forbid, spending the night in a hotel, and definitely didn’t want to be walking about on busy streets.  I am sure I must have looked like a complete egomaniacal bum, but these were the psychological problems I faced.  Of course driving for an hour and a half was out of the question because I just didn’t want to be in a car driving on a highway, especially at night when my vision was at that time dramatically impaired.  Is that psychological, or practical?  After all, I was the victim of the road, and whether I was driving or not, I didn’t want to be in a car.  Now, eating in a restaurant meant showing off my deformities in public, is this psychological or just old fashioned pride?  If one looked like a pile of dung why show off?  And, staying anywhere else but home was just out of the question for me.  The silent struggle to get home from the hospital was still ingrained in my head every waking moment so they would have to pull me forcefully out of my house now.  And then being in a city, any city, was contrary to my desire to hide in a cabin deep in the woods.  You can call that anything you want, but for me it was called necessity. 

I made it clear I wouldn’t go, but begged the wife to, and take the children with her, after all it was her father, their grandfather, and while I wanted to be safe and at home, I really didn’t want to deny anyone else their freedom, especially after they had done so much for me.  Why couldn’t she accept this particular difference of opinion, after all if they went to the big city and spent the night someone would have to stay home with the dog, right?  My wife listened patiently to my concerns and then one upped me and had the whole family descend on our house instead of congregating in Philly. 

 This is when I found out that what I feared was true, I definitely did not like to be in crowded situations (this hasn't abated much yet).  So as the family factions marched in the front door I spent a great deal of time huddled up in the corner of the couch, not being able to move around with so many people about (too dangerous for me) and not being able to hide in the bedroom as all of the extended family continued to move about as they saw fit, in every room of the house. 

The next thing which bothered me was the conversation with more than one person at at time, or lack thereof.  At first, along with the incoming crowd a multitude of queries about my health were launched from several angles at once and…, nothing else.  But eventually, as I gave short terse responses, or responded slowly as I tried to sort through the incoming barrage, and no one had anything else to ask me most moved off to discuss a hundred and one other things with whoever would be standing near enough to be out of speaking range with me.  But one woman (Ethel) who, along with her husband, was part of the oldest duet in the room did sit down next to me and talked, just talked.  Speaking with her quietly in the proverbial corner, one on one, while the action ebbed and flowed but ignored us, was all I needed and I was thankful.  Later that night, when I was sitting in a corner of the table in the kitchen eating dinner with the younger crowd, Jackie came and spent some quality time with me too and I thank both women extensively for their special efforts.  Oh, I did almost forget.  One of the younger set also spent some time talking with me, that was Coby, and so now I often thank him, in my heart, for taking the time to speak with an old man who was very slow on the delivery and full of misplaced words, but not ideas.

As the evening wore on, and dinner was finished, I became more relaxed, but also very tired.  I knew that soon I would have to go to bed, the medicine was directing me to do so, and now I just needed everyone to leave.  So as I made it known, and prepared to leave the room, hoping I could close the bedroom door and lie down, I was told that everyone except me, my wife and our dog would be…, driving down to Philly.  I was happy that everyone was leaving but now, without my knowing it had been decided that my children were leaving too.  Multitasking has not been easy for me since getting out of the hospital, and as on the one hand I had felt happy to have been part of the celebration without having to travel, the idea that people had decided what my children would do without asking me, their father, hit home.  But I couldn’t respond.  My energy level had shrunk down, my resistance fell apart too, and for me while deep down I could only wish for my family to be close by, I had no strength in me to put up a fight that would stop them from leaving.  All I could do was shake hands and say good bye.  Why had no one asked me what I thought?  Welcome to the new world.  This would not be the last time the father would sit on the sideline and just watch.

Visit Saverio on his website:  http://www.comicfictionnoir.com/ or on his social satire blog: http://comicfictionnoir.blogspot.com/

How do You Know When You are Home?

One Memory Stands Out.

Three years and two months after the fact how much can one remember if you don’t keep a journal, or at least a blog?   I know my memory of events is questionable but I thought I had anchored down a few salient items I had modicums of recollection of and would use these to form the basis of these TBI entries.  Not the case.  Or rather, many of my remembrances are either mixed up, or melded together. 

I wanted to write about coming home so I went through some of what I was going to say with my wife.  And I had it all wrong.  I remember a ‘ride’ home from the hospital and this was my first exposure to sitting in the middle of the back seat firmly harnessed in, shoulder strap and everything.  I would ride in this position in cars for many, many months to come.  I also remember on this particular trip that Renee, a very good friend of the family, had come along with my wife and sat beside her in the front seat.  But, this was not my ‘coming home’ so to say.  Rather it was just a ‘visit’ home before I was released from the hospital.  I had forgotten, plain and simple.  It must have been the weekend between Christmas and New Years Eve.  Now that my wife and I were discussing this visit a tiny drop of what went on that day returned to me.  My neighbor had come over and as we watched football together he tried to convince me that I was a Dallas Cowboys fan.  Nice try.

From there I don’t remember the actual return trip on January 3.  I do know that before releasing me I had to take the ‘test’ so that they would have a base line on my recovery efforts.  Results from that evaluation (this they did not mention to me) revealed receptive and expressive language deficits, diminished performance at all levels of verbal memory, and perseverations / disinhibition consistent with frontal and temporal lobe dysfunction due to… TBI.  For some reason, to keep trying is good when you are problem solving at work, but bad when you are taking a neuropsychological evaluation.

   I did get home, as mentioned I sat in the middle of the back seat, and this time (I stood corrected) no one sat in the front with my wife.  It was mid week and my children were at school, and after school activities so I didn’t see them when we returned.  I don’t remember anything of this part of the day really.  I was told my in-laws came to the house to visit, as they had many, many times while I was in hospital as they took care of my teenagers.  I may have been sleeping in the afternoon, as this has become a wonderful habit that haunts me to this day, so if they did visit it must have been short.  I was also told that the dog, which I make fun of in my social commentary blog (http://comicfictionnoir.blogspot.com/), came and quietly sat by my feet, for hours.  I have other interesting stories to tell of her parental approach to me upon returning from the hospital, but these I will save for another day.  I also know that my ability to adjust to temperature is very limited and so the small space heaters we have in our house are always now set close to where I sit, and this temperature regulation disability is brought out in one of the episodes involving the dog.  Our dog is definitely canine, and beautiful, and smart.

There is a story here that I can tell now, as it involves the dog, the wife, and whatever people see at the end of the tunnel.  First the dog.  Of course I was told this part of the story because I have no recollection of it.  When I was in ICU, pictures of my family and the dog were placed near my bed.  The nurses / attendants would come in and talk to me even when no one else was around.  They would show me the pictures and ask me to tell them who the different people were.  When my wife came in they called her Maple.  She asked them why they called her by that name and was told; “He told us your name when we asked who the woman in the picture was.”

Of course my wife’s name is not Maple, that is the dog’s name, and it is not Mary, which was the next name I came up with when re-interrogated.   Eventually I got it right, but this leads to the second half of this story.  This part of the story I used to tell to people when they asked me of my experiences in the hospital, but when I told it the conversation immediately changed and so my feeling is that no one wanted to hear it.  It goes like this; when asked about what I remembered most from my stay in hospital I told them that I remember someone sitting next to me every night.  I remember not so much from seeing this person, ‘the angel’, but rather from feeling her presence.  This person became my rock upon which I clung, the only thing I wanted to cling to, and in so doing she helped me back to this side of the precipice.  I waited for her visit every day.  As time passed a face did align itself with the vision and the face looked very familiar.  It was the face of love.

There is one thing I do remember from my first day home and it involved my wife.  I knew then and I know now that my looks, while never really ‘superior’ had taken a dive to the side of the spectrum upon which horror films are based.  When looking in the mirror on the effects the accident had on my face all I could think about was Mary Shelley’s picture of Prometheus, unbound.  And yet that night when we crawled into bed together my wife made love with me.  How we actually managed that one is hard to imagine, or describe.  I had no strength to allow for me to get on top, and it hurt too much for anyone to climb onto my chest, lying on my side was not pleasant either but somehow we did manage.  And, lying side by side as we whispered to each other I felt alive and thankful to the woman of my dreams.

New Year’s Eve…, In the Hospital

Look What I’ve Done to My Family.

I didn’t know the extent of my medications while I was in the hospital, all I did know was that I got a side dish with every meal.  And, since I was not really keeping count I had no idea that the dosage of trazodone at night (for insomnia and impulsiveness) was being increased.  Why I was up at night, why I was roaming around, to me, came from an overwhelming desire to be somewhere else.  I wasn’t comfortable in the hospital room, I wanted to leave.  I thought I told them this, but every day I was still dreaming, still in the hospital and I didn’t know how many different ways to explain my need.  So my body must have reacted in its own way.  It was searching, searching for a way out. 

Of course it could have just been that a body can only rest so much.  With the medications in play I was sleeping way before prime time was over.  This is why by the wee hours of the morning I would get out of bed, sit on my chair and watch whatever was on the television.  I do not know if the man lying beside me in the room watched too.  I remember his eyes were open but what he saw I do not know.  The eyes didn’t follow me per se as I bustled about the room, or passed his bed on my way to the hall.  But they were open, and they were staring.  I tried asking him once what he wanted to watch but when he didn’t answer there was nowhere for me to go with that, so I watched what I wanted, it was after all, my TV.  If he wanted something else he could watch his own.  One time I asked one of those night clerks when they once again caught be in the hall about this but the answer evaded me.  All I remember from that episode was more medicine for me and someone dividing the room in half by pulling the curtain.

Between Christmas and the New Year I know I had a visitor.  Karen came.  She was an old family friend from when I was very young.  Her father and mine served together in Korea and our families shared a lot of memories.  I cannot recollect exactly when she came, but it was during this holiday season. 

I was very happy to have a visitor but very sad to be seen in my condition.  Something else became very obvious to me during this visit.  My ability to communicate was more severely limited than I would have imagined, if I actually spent time thinking about it.  Funny thing though, my ability to interpret data was not.  It became very clear to me from that moment onwards that everyone I interacted with fell into two camps; those who interacted with me in a manner I had experienced before my accident (even if I had trouble talking) and those who stayed back, watched me, and took notes. 

Later I would learn of all those who sent cards, set prayers for me in motion, or mentioned me in their religious services.  These people, coupled with all those who helped me on December 11, 2007, are truly great gifts to the human condition.  But when I was recovering in the hospital my attention became fixed on my immediate surroundings.  And at this time most people I spoke with fell into the second category, those who stayed back, watched me, and took notes.  Since I was very well acquainted with scientific observation I did not like in the least others observing me like white-coated scientists.  Later I would indirectly hear their pronouncements on my condition.  The concept of being continually under observation led to my retreat into a defensive state of mind.  If people treated me like a laboratory animal instead of a human being, it made it difficult for me to relax around them, or, quite frankly, to be friendly.  The differentiation of people based on their mental competencies had come home to roost.  It made me very mad.

 Eventually New Year’s Eve arrived.  My wife and children came.  I was happy to see them but sad that they would have to spend a holiday in a hospital.  While they came to see me, I cried for them.  It was beginning to sink in and I was saddened by what I had done to my family.  I tried to get them to leave before visiting hours were over so they could get home (we lived about an hour and a half away, depending on traffic) but I was told they were spending the night.  Not in the hospital but in a nearby motel. 

New Year’s Eve in a motel watching television with clear memories of Prometheus wishing to be unbound is not the best of all possible worlds, but the fact that they were there amazed me.  But thinking of them, in their situation, only made me stretch harder.  If I was the problem, if I caused their lives to change, inexorably I feared, then I had to escape, to get out and find a way to fix what I had molded, and I would to this, right after a quick nap, copious amounts of medicine may not be the tastiest of courses, but it was the one item you were forced to eat at mealtime. 

For a long, long time, even after I was weaned off of most medications, when I slept I had no dreams.  The trouble was getting to sleep though the discomfort.  But when sleep did come, it came like a blink.  I was asleep, and then I was awake.  On New Year’s Eve, like every night in the hopital I began my sleep early, and as usual, by midnight or thereabouts I was awake again, nervous, and in need…, of something.  All memory of where I was had to be reconstructed.  I did feel again the need, the need to do something, but the odds against me remembering what that need was seemed to be hopeless. 

New Year’s came and my family returned bringing extensions with them.  My sister-in-law and her husband had driven up from Philadelphia, and brought dinner.   If anyone else was there I do not know, but dinner was there and I was given permission to eat some of it.  It was at this point in time that I began to realize exactly why I wanted to escape; the food was terrible in the hospital.  I had found a rock on which to base my case, and remember it basically at every meal.

What’s a Little Anomia Between Friends?

I Wish I could Tell you What I Feel.

For some reason I liked my new hair style, very short on one side and long and full on the other.  Of course every morning when I washed up the left ear sticking out the way it did, with all of the scar tissue around it, usually set me back a moment.  And then there was the other scar, the one that began just above the temple and seemed to recede towards the back of my head.  I could not follow the entire course of that disfigurement because even though the hair was short it seemed to cover the extent of the scar line.  Of course when I ‘got dressed’ a few other new blemishes peeked out at me.   It took a long while for me to piece it all together and no matter how hard I tried, while in the hospital, I couldn’t do it.

I was in an accident and that was obvious even if I didn’t remember it.  The helicopter ride to the trauma center I also had no recollection of and so it was hard to fathom what had happened.  The number and severity of each lesion was very difficult to keep track of even if, when presented with a spoon and fork, I could not open my mouth wide to eat.  The broken ribs didn’t bother me, until it was time to sit or go to bed, and I couldn’t get comfortable.  Of course the shattered T3 vertebrae probably had something to do with that problem too.  But not being able to yawn and take a deep, deep breath was the recurrent reminder of something amiss.  When asked I could never remember what hurt in any particular order and had to be walked through the visible signs before responding with a status report. 

The one thing which did stand out and gave me real concern had nothing to do with my ‘physical’ ailments it had more to do with the ‘location’ of the accident.  Throughout the year leading up to that terrible scene I distinctly remember a premonition, a portent of things to come.  I had this dream, in my recollection, very often.  In it I was reminded to not drive a particular path at a particular time of day.  It was always the same path and the warning included a defined intersection.  It would come to me in my dreams, or sometimes as I got in my car before driving to work in the morning.  This is how I remember receiving these flashes of information. 

The last remembered incident of the dream was on Thanksgiving morning about two weeks before the fatal day.  I knew the route I would drive the family to visit relatives would take us past the intersection I had been repeatedly warned about.  In the dream that morning I was given the ‘all clear’ indication for our Thanksgiving ride.  But, it also let me know that trouble was not far ahead.  I never spoke with anyone about these dreams.  And now, years later, I have to ask myself if they were premonitions of things to come or reflections of the past while the brain began to reconnect.  Either way, in the hospital I knew of them and the only thing I could do was wonder why I drove on a particular road at a particular time of day.  After all, I had been warned.

 Of course the mental trouble could have been more pharmaceutical in nature.  I know now I was on various medicines in the hospital, though of course I don’t remember much at the time.  These pills were taken with the meals brought to my room.  I am sure the attendants told me what they were for at the time but, if the information went in one ear, well, if it went in the left ear where it probably got stuck in the residual tried blood that I had to clean out every morning. 

Upon transfer from Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital to Johnson Rehabilitation Institute I was on a program that included protonix for GI prophylaxis, metoprolol for hypertension, and trazodone at night for insomnia and impulsiveness.  The insomnia was a big problem so the trazodone was periodically increase (I learned later).  Of course I was on Keppra for seizures twice a day (this one would continue for a long, long time) while other seizure medications were being phased out.  Complaints of left chest soreness got me started on anti-inflammatory agents.  A low sodium diet was used to help with hypertension and Colace and senna were part of the bowel regimen, after all, you don’t want to have a constipated patient on your hands now do you.  I wonder, could my problem with understanding, remembering, being in the present, any of these things be due to the plethora of drugs in my system?  I would like to believe this to be the case, but now, years later, and still unable to remember in the short term arena of life, I know better.

I was admitted to the brain trauma unit (BTU) at Johnson Rehabilitation for a reason and along with the drugs the daily routine included physical, occupational and speech therapy, along with recreational therapy.  I wonder if that was to teach me how to play nice with others?  Whether I got along well with others or not, what I was really bad at was speaking, or better put – Anomia, which is: A problem with word finding.  I had an impaired recall of words with no impairment of comprehension or the capacity to repeat the words.   In other words, the incoming seemed to work, the outgoing was having problems.

I had no idea there was a word for this condition.  It basically hits the nail on the head though.  My mind raced faster than it ever did before searching the universe around me in multiple dimensions I had never experienced before but…, what ever was happening in my stream of consciousness could not find the right road to descend from the heights.  I could not translate thoughts to words.  But then again, who cared, all they showed me at the BTU was pictures of things that I needed to identify.  I knew what they were, why did I have to tell them?  I was too busy trying to figure out how metaphysical relationships themselves existed in the physical world around us.  What a waste of time it was talking about how many words began with the letter ‘A’.

Of course I didn’t know how hard it would be to leave the hospital if I didn’t stop, listen and speak to them on a level that they could understand.

When Can I Go Home?

Christmas was over, and I had settled into a routine of sorts, only I have no idea what that was.  I do have more memories of this week in the hospital but as before, they are disjointed.  I do know I was taken in a group to the exercise area which was down the elevator and through a few turns in a long hallway.  I do not think I could find my way there alone but all I had to do was follow the leader.  So, in a sense we got to play a game to get to the treadmills. 

I had a roommate but he didn’t speak to me.  In fact he never got out of bed.  I was to learn later that his condition could have been mine if not for the grace of God and the helping hands of so many along the way.  I passed him a hundred times a day as I came in and out of our room.  His wife came to visit him every day, and his children, who were teenagers, like mine, came often.  Something about him and his family saddened me and frightened me.  I did not want to…

I was given tests while I was in the hospital, neuropsychological tests, though I did not know what they were at the time.  Now, years later I have gotten the nerve up to read the reports, and I must say that what they observed of my mental abilities is much different from what I was observing and thinking.  For me, everything was so clear.  Every night as I watched on television the cable news networks and listened to the editorial opinions from both the left and right leaning pundits I personally felt that the world’s problems were quite easy to define, and if one boiled down the thousands of different aspects of our human condition, the answers were not hard embrace.  But, like in my neuropsychological tests, I was unable to articulate my point(s) of view let alone to anyone who could act upon my recommendations. 

As much as I wanted to contribute to solving the problems we as a species on the planet earth were exposed to, there was no way to do that from within the confines of a neurologic ward.  I wanted out.  I think I began to ask my wife ‘when’ every time she came to visit and the only answer to this query was ‘soon’. 

            “Soon,” I asked, “when is soon?”
            “When they say you are better,” is as close to an answer that I can remember, though this may have been my interpretation.  Always hard to tell what I remember and what I wanted to hear.
            Perhaps this is why I started being nicer to everyone in the hospital, so they would think I was ‘better’.