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.

Temporal Sequence Went Out the Window

In my memory, for more than a year before my accident I had a recurring dream, or perhaps flash of clairvoyance would be a better descriptor.  It would sometimes come in the early morning hours, and other times it would hit me as I buckled in my seatbelt and started the ignition.  It was always a flash of information, like a text coming in over the wires, and it was, basically, driving instructions. 

I had several different routes by which I could drive to work and the inspirational message always told me which way NOT to go, and then it told me why.  The problem was always with one particular route and the message told me to not use it that particular day because there would be an accident at a certain location on the route, and I would be in it.   

My last version of this dream had occurred to me on Thanksgiving Day in 2007.  The dream told me that it was okay to travel on that road over the Thanksgiving Holiday; the accident was not scheduled for November.  It was a week or so later, in December, that I would have to worry about.  December 11, 2007 was the date of my accident.

In the hospital, as my memory of time and events began to turn back on I know that I was confused.  I did not know why I was in the hospital.  I did not know what had happened to place me there.  I did not know why half my head had been shaved.  But I do remember asking whoever came in with my food or with my medicine or to take my blood pressure, each and every one, “Why am I here?”

They were all polite, and, to a degree, sympathetic in their response, “You got hurt.  How do you feel?”

I also know that I must have asked my wife the same question on each of her daily visits and finally the answer registered; “You were in an accident,” she told me.

“Thank you for clearing that up,” or some other similar response must have been my reaction, but that answer spawned new questions like, ‘what type of accident,’ and ‘where are my keys,’ which led to ‘I want my keys so I can go home,’ which led to the nurse allowing me to sit in my chair and watch TV at three o’clock in the morning as she watched me chew some pills she had just given me, along with the ice cream.

After one or two more sessions with my wife the story expanded.  It was not just an accident, it was a car accident.
           
“Where?” I had to ask.

Even in the hospital, even without having more than a modicum of synaptic functions in play I was amazed at her response.  It was at the exact location my long term recurring dream had told me to avoid. 

I had never told anyone of this particular dream before but now I, as a TBI survivor, saw a connection.  I know I tried to tell everyone about my dreams, but no matter how I relayed what I had experienced dream-wise for so long, those that listened nodded their heads and then asked, “How do you feel?”
           
Months later, in cognitive rehabilitation sessions, various aspects of the brain function were discussed especially how the brain responds to trauma.  It shuts down.  The three dimensional reality that is put together by the interaction and growth of the nodes in the cortex, disappears.  Then slowly, as one section of the brain after another is turned back on, the 3D basis of reality is woven back together.  Where do people go, you may ask, when they meditate?  They pass through their constructed 3D realm and fly off to wherever a dream or thought might take them.

That is an amazing trip for those skilled in the art, but the questions I had after discussing this reconstructive process were quite simple in cotext, but unanswerable in todays understanding of the system.  Did I dream that same recurrent dream in my coma, or during the restructuring process?  Or was it, as I first imagined, a running warning light that flashed at me throughout the year before my trauma?  Of course I do not know.  I do know that I have not had a similar flash dream since learning I was in an accident, but then again I also know that I did not have any memory of dreams of any sort for quite a while after my release from the hospital.  I was heavily medicated at the time but if it was the drugs causing this lack of dreaming when I was out of the hospital, how could I of had them while inside the hospital?

I liked to ride on my mini-stool.

I had a room mate, not one that I chose of course but he talked a lot and we took classes together.  Some classes were down at the end of the hall.  Everyone walked, but me, I wrote my scooter.  It really wasn’t a scooter it was more of a stool with wheels on it.  I don’t know where it came from but I do remember I could ride it from my room to the hallway and then all the way to the classroom.  A nurse stopped me once and asked, “Why don’t you walk?”

Why walk?  I wondered, when you can ride!

I am not sure when classes started or stopped and what went on in the classes also doesn’t register.  All I know is that we met as a group and everyone sat in some chairs, in a circle of sorts.  There was an instructor of course who led the group discussions.  Sitting in the circle listening to the others in the group finally brought home the realization that this was not physical therapy.  Why was I there?  And why did I have a scar across the left side of my head?  It was plain to see, they had shaved the hair off of that side of my head.  Not everyone had shaved heads like me, but everyone did have difficulty putting sentences together, and this apparently was my problem too.  No matter what I thought on the inside, I couldn’t put it all into words.  

My wife came that day.  She came every day, but I don’t remember that.  She arrived at the ICU when I was being wheeled out of the operating room.  The first person she saw, I was told, was the priest.  She spent the night, and the next and two more after that before she finally left the hospital for a rest.  I was told that I awoke from the coma after a day or so and with tubes sticking in everywhere, mouth included, I spoke to her and others who came to visit.  I do not have any memory of this.  Later I was to learn about TBI and how the brain shuts down for a while when survival mode kicks in, and then slowly reengages.  For me, memory has been the slowest to reengage completely.

The first time I remember seeing her I was very happy.  And I know the first question I asked was, “when can I go home?”  She smiled, and like someone who has heard the question before, she patted me on the arm and said, “When you are better”.   There was so much more I wanted to ask, but it was time for my medicine. 

When I awoke she was gone, and I think I was upset.  I do not think my roommate liked my attitude, and so we had a discussion.  I must have told him a thing or two he didn’t agree with.  The next thing I remember was I had changed rooms.  I had a new roommate.  This one would be hard to talk to, he didn’t speak.

Then I woke up, I think.

What happened after the ‘incident of the dirty bed’ I don’t really know because, well, because I cannot remember.  What does register in my next recollection of the recovery hospital was that my bed was no longer a cage.  Of course this led to my wondering if ever I was so constrained.  Now I was free and that was all that mattered.  Free to climb in, and out of my bed whenever I wanted.  And this made me wonder, if the cage was real, why.  Was I bad, was I in prison, was I ever going to get out. 

What also made me wonder was why one half of my head was shaved while the hair on the other side was much longer than I remembered it being.  I did try to comb it all the way over but it just wasn’t long enough for that.

The room also appeared brighter than I remembered it being, and perhaps it was because this recollection occurred during daylight hours, or the curtains had been drawn.  Whatever the reason, I got out of bed and slowly walked into the bathroom, looked in the mirror and saw the shaved head.  It didn’t bother me too much, just, like everything else I saw around me, it made me think.  Then I put it aside and managed to open my mouth just wide enough to allow the toothbrush in and when I had finished brushing teeeth, washing my face, and attempting to comb, I came out of the bathroom and found an attendant waiting for me.  She carried a tray with food and drink and a small cup filled with pills.  She was nice, and spoke with me as if it wasn’t our first meeting, but she didn’t bother telling me her name, and then she waited for me to finish all of the medicine before leaving.  I sat in a chair beside the bed with the tray of food in front of me, watched someone on TV, and ate in silence.

Why did I shave the hair off one side of my head, and why couldn’t I open my mouth all the way?  I thought about those two things while I waited for someone.  Who I awaited I do not know, but I had a feeling they would come, so I sat, and waited some more, and that was all I remember from that episode in my life.

First Memory was Like a Dream

They told me the comma lasted just a day or so, but I have no recollection of the first ten days in ICU.  Later they moved me to a recovery type hospital and this is where the first memory comes from (I think).  Only was it a memory or was it a dream?  And boy do I have a lot of dream sequences that may or may not have been reality floating around.  I do wish I could figure that one out.  But I will start with the hospital, or the prison, or the torture chamber sequence and this of course all depends on interpretation because this one I do think was real.

It was very late at night and I was in bed.  Only the bed had a mesh of sorts all around it running up high above me and seemed to be closed at the top.  Like a cage.  Dreaming right?  I tried to call for help but my mouth was barely able to open so all I could do was whisper.  Now nothing seemed to hurt and so I was, at first, just curious.  What type of dream was I in.  I tried to touch the netting that seemed to be soft, but solid.  Problem was, my hands appeared to be tied down so I couldn't reach out.  This made me try again to call out for help, but like before I couldn't manage anything above a whisper, and now my jaw started to hurt a bit.

I tried to look around but my neck was very stiff so I could only turn my head a bit from side to side.  On the far side of the netting I noted a curtain that appeared to cut the room in half and hence it closed me in beyond the cage itself.  On the far wall beyond the foot of the bed was a television and it was turned on but there was no sound.  If there was sound I do not remember or could not hear.  I don't remember what was being broadcast either, I only know that it added a dim light to the room. 

My feet moved a bit, they did not seem to be, like the arms, tied down.  But like trying to turn my neck there was pain.  I remember laying in this bed for a while, but how long that was I cannot even guess, days, weeks, or seconds, time itself didn't register.  But I do know that I had to relieve my bowels and this began to cause me alarm. Was I in a dream or did I really have to go?   I couldn't get up, I couldn't call for help and I couldn't really see beyond the curtain.  I tried to free my arms, over and over again but to no avail and eventually, this I remember very clearly, I relieved myself.  Then to applaud my own efforts I sprouted urine too.

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