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.