My Daze Of Brain Injury

My Daze of Brain Injury

BALBOA PRESS

Chapter One

On November 6, 1996, at 4:33 p.m., my life would change. I didn't know it the moment it happened, and I didn't realize what happened for months afterward. However, on that morning, my only concern was getting ready to start my day as both a parent and a teacher. The events after 4:33 p.m. on that typical fall day were of no concern to me whatsoever.

In the fall of 1996, I was a single parent living with my two children in a small town along the coast of North Carolina. I was a happy, healthy, master's degree program graduate—with honors—recently accepted into a doctoral program and financially independent. At this time, I was working as a special education teacher and counselor for challenged high school students, and I coordinated a program to help integrate them within the broader community. The program bridged the gap between the needs of the community and the unique needs of my students, who often struggled with how to adapt to change, effectively communicate their needs, and display appropriate social skills.

As a special education teacher, I sometimes encountered role reversals (when the teacher becomes the student), and these occasions were very educational and inspiring. I learned of my students' daily struggles and the many hardships in their young lives. They taught me what was most important in life: not the big house, fancy clothes, or expensive cars, but the basic need to be loved and accepted.

Teaching was always my passion; no two days were ever the same, and each day was a unique challenge. Another passion, medicine, came from my father, a chief hospital corpsman who later practiced as a physician's assistant. Before entering the education field, I was a nursing student pursuing my degree. That all changed when my son, Samuel, who struggled with language and memory, began school. (I recall a challenging time when he was preparing to become a Boy Scout at age eight. He needed to memorize the Boy Scout pledge. We overcame this conflict by singing the words, which made the experience more enjoyable and easier for him to remember the words.) Switching my major to education was more logical to effectively engage in my son's learning difficulties. The appeal of nursing was the teaching aspect that dealt with patient care, which allowed me to express my concern and compassion for other people. My love of medicine was conveyed through caring for my cherished animals. In essence, my decision was the best of both worlds.

Horses were another passion of mine and I was certified as an equestrian riding instructor who worked part-time giving lessons to all ages. As a riding instructor, I was responsible for the safety and care of my students and for creating a meaningful experience for both horse and rider. (The basic premise of riding is yielding to pressure: horses go where you shift your weight. An awareness of your own body and your movement when riding a horse is highly important.) My ultimate goal was to produce a win-win-win situation for horse, rider, and me. To see how these newfound partnerships evolved was exciting. With my background in riding instruction, special education, and counseling, I found it was a natural progression to volunteer as a therapeutic horseback rider and to assist with the Special Olympics. On several occasions, parents/caregivers commented on the positive changes that were readily apparent in the children. My work and my volunteer activities working with those with disabilities, such as, autism and cerebral palsy, gave me profound satisfaction.

Healing takes place when love is present and begins with helping others. When life seems perfect, it can change in a moment. Thus, all plans are subject to change in life. I didn't know it yet, but the impact of my education and training would soon play a pivotal role in my world. At the time, I innocently thought a promising future lie ahead.

My childhood was one of great love while adapting frequently to new situations. As a military family, we moved on the average of every two to three years. We lived in over a dozen locations, including North Carolina, Washington, D.C., Hawaii, Virginia, California, Rhode Island and Florida. Often, a few boxes remained packed due to these many changes of residence. Whenever I started at a new school, I faced challenging adjustments: making friends, losing friends, walking into an unknown school midyear, and searching for just one new friend who would accept me without reservations. Through these childhood experiences, I learned the value of loving unconditionally and being true to myself, which, in turn, opened my heart to the awareness of others and what they offered to my life.

Another gift that surfaced from my youth was the gift of God in my daily living. I was raised as a Catholic. My parents were adamant I should receive a solid education that included not only intellectual stimulation, but also a spiritual commitment. My four siblings and I attended many parochial schools, where some of my fondest memories were created. An especially dear memory was the honor of being chosen the May Queen. At the time, I was in the fourth grade and attended Holy Spirit School located near my Dad's duty station at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. (In the Catholic Church, during the month of May, the Blessed Mother Mary is celebrated as the "Mother of God." On the first of May, the May Queen crowns a statue representing the Blessed Mother with a wreath of blossoms which signifies Mary's virtues.) I felt honored to be selected as the May Queen. My older sister, Susan, and my younger sister, Anne, giggled because they thought I was getting married in my May Queen attire–a long, flowing white dress and veil and carrying a bouquet of flowers. My two brothers, Dan, the oldest in the family, and Stephen, the baby of the family, ignored the whole affair. My humility was restored. Another cherished memory was the innocent belief that we all had daily conversations with God and that we therefore were never completely alone. This belief was and is the foundation of my spiritual partnership, one of divine love and devotion.

In 1994, my home was burglarized while my nine-year old daughter, Krista, and I were on vacation at Disney World. Upon returning to an open door, we discovered our house had been not only looted but also damaged throughout. The damage was so extensive that we were forced to move out during repairs. As the adage goes, "home is where the heart is," and even though the house was restored, my young daughter and I were never able to overcome our feelings of violation. After several uneasy months, I concluded this was an opportune time to begin anew and move to the countryside. This decision afforded me the opportunity to follow a dream to one day own horses, live freely, and enjoy the simple life. Future plans included owning an elaborate therapeutic riding facility and building a barn with a round pen for training horses. My dream started on the road to reality with the purchase of several horses and five acres of land in the country.

In this pastoral setting, it was easy for me to reflect on what was most important in life, especially after I'd left behind the scars of the invasion of my safe haven, my home. Love of self, family, and friends took on a deeper meaning and further increased my awareness and concern for others. How could a violation of my personal space lead to such happiness? In retrospect, the burglary and the relocation to the countryside may well have been my first step in the dance of destiny.

Chapter Two

Blinding headlights, screeching brakes, spinning car, crunching metal, shattering glass, and then, dead silence—the dance of destiny took center stage. The clock in the car was stopped at 4:33 p.m.

When a person goes through a head-on collision, time has a way of standing still yet passing in slow motion, almost like a "program delay" that helps the brain to sift through data to reassemble the pieces. Fumes from the chemical dust of the deflated air bag permeated the air with an obnoxious odor, an odor so real I tasted plastic. My face and arms burned. I felt numb—dazed. What happened? Faint intermittent music from a car radio, voices close by, and slow-moving vehicle sounds faded in and out. The crumpled figure lying across the driver's seat was me. I tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come out. My voice was frozen. I couldn't move my legs. Is this really happening? I felt detached, like an onlooker. Who is this stranger in the car? In my delirium, flashes of an overturned vehicle appeared in the distance, and I experienced an overwhelming fear in the pit of my stomach. Did I kill someone? Sirens sounded faintly in the distance and gradually grew stronger. The world around me turned black, and then gray.

In the gray mist, a man's face suddenly appeared. His light blue eyes drew me like a magnet to a comforting light; at that precise moment, I sensed he was there to protect me from further harm. Even though I was unaware of what was going on or what had occurred moments before, I felt safe. He spoke gently, asking questions about my children, speaking of his own family, all the while offering words of comfort. Softly, he told me his name was Scott. He was not part of the fire or ambulance crews and I didn't know where he came from. I later wondered how he happened upon the accident and why he stopped. In that moment, the stranger was the keeper of my heart; love and comfort, which I so desperately needed at that time, were given freely. As I look back, words cannot express the deep love and gratitude I sensed during those brief moments with this stranger. It is the power of human touch that keeps people connected during trauma, even if they are unconscious. Since the time of the accident, several intuitive friends, unaware of the circumstances of the stranger, described the healing presence of an angel at the scene of my near-death experience.

Although I do not entirely recall ambulance workers lifting me from my vehicle and placing me in the ambulance, I do recall an excruciating head pain. I needed the pain to end. (It continued nonstop for months, silenced only by narcotics.) The emergency room experience was sterile and cold. The medical staff members asked many questions and gave so many directions that I struggled to respond. I wondered, What do they really want me to do? The examination and X-rays lasted for several hours. The medical team found that I had chemical burns, abrasions, bruising, muscle spasms, and chest contusions. I was diagnosed with a motor vehicle accident (MVA) lumbar sprain. I received a shot for overall pain along with a note to excuse my absence from teaching for two days, and I was advised to follow up with a family physician.

Someone at the hospital telephoned my brother, Stephen, my emergency contact, to take me home. Stephen and I were always very close and as he was driving me home and trying to comfort me, he exclaimed, "Rob, you're really lucky!" Instead, I felt confused and lost. The effects of the pain medicine, the accident, and the paradox of my brother's perplexing words remained with me for a long time.

In the weeks and months following the accident, I remained in an utter state of confusion with vanishing thoughts and constant distractions. I felt alone and unsettled and fought to keep my independence. Numerous times, I lost my way home from shopping. My life consisted of making lists and finding ways to help myself cope with everyday activities. Shopping at the grocery store was a monumental task: understanding which aisle to begin shopping; dodging people and carts; finding the items on my list and the money to pay for my purchases; searching for my car keys and car in the parking lot—all normal requirements to accomplish a mundane but essential task. Memory was fleeting; I thought I was losing my mind after a demanding day of shopping. Amidst these difficulties, I slowly began to perceive the tragic effect and subsequent loss of healthy brain function, a vital activity often taken for granted. These days were the beginning of some of my darkest moments.

Additionally, at this time, my bank account and bill payments were at odds. My body required sleep, sleep, and more sleep. The chest contusions took weeks to heal, as evidenced by how difficult it was for me to feed myself or open doors. The strength to rotate a knob was nonexistent, and its absence was quite humbling, especially for a formerly efficient and independent woman who managed to juggle kids, household, education, and career. Behind the scenes, the "super mom" image was fast crumbling. Friends and family dropped by with cards or flowers, but the occasions were not always pleasant and, many times, were actually depressing. I knew who the visitors were, but I was confused. Why are they here? Nothing is wrong with me. I am not sick or dying. I will be back to work in no time!

Based on the recommendation of the emergency room doctor, I followed up with my family physician, who recommended I make an appointment with an orthopedic doctor. This physician ordered physical therapy for the back pain along with a narcotic prescription to quell my constant head pain. In time, the physical therapy treatment improved my condition, but I still suffered annoying and persistent back pain.

Six months following the accident, in the spring of 1997, neuropsychological testing was finally administered. These tests identified my current levels of overall brain functioning and determined I had areas of cognitive deficit and memory loss along with a subsequent diagnosis of mild closed head injury. The word "mild" within the term "mild closed head injury" is a misnomer, since any injury to the brain can have significant and devastating effects on cognitive functioning. A closed head injury is a type of traumatic brain injury (TBI). Based on my personal experience, the broader terminology, TBI, better explained my physical and mental difficulties to family, friends, and associates. My brain injury took on more importance and concern.

This vital piece of information—my diagnosis—was used solely for the benefit of the pending litigation (from the accident) and to support my disability claim. Unfortunately, no one advocated for my best interest as it related to my overall well-being, although the neuropsychologist who performed the neuropsychological testing suggested I receive counseling services and supportive medications for head pain. Moreover, I felt as though I was left to fend for myself in a world I did not understand and I was slowly losing faith in my diminished existence. Why didn't I die? Why am I here? Is this really what life is about? What will I do? Where will I go? All I want is to be loved. Will I ever feel love again? I am so tired.

Eventually, my head pain improved, but at a cost to the quality of my life. For approximately a year, I went through the motions of daily living detached from life. I often wondered if the narcotic was a gift or a curse. A gift allowed my brain to rest and recoup from the closed head injury; a curse was time lost on possible rehabilitation and/ or potential regeneration to the brain. In either case, no cognitive therapy was conducted or recommended by any of the treating professionals.

With a TBI, an early diagnosis and prompt, appropriate treatment are extremely important to prevent further injuries to the brain from the chemical and physical changes—such as swelling and pressure within the brain—that accompany a TBI. Despite knowledge of the head-on vehicle collision and air bag deployment, the initial treating medical professionals failed to stress the importance of an evaluation by a neurologist/neuropsychologist along with the potential need for any recommended supportive therapy. A lingering, excruciating headache forced me to seek further medical attention and legal advice. Recovering from the TBI was challenging, even for a special education teacher who had formerly worked with students with TBIs. Based on my educational training, I understood the workings of the human mind, but my mind was not fully cognizant of my own vulnerability and the subsequent overall impact the TBI had on my life. In the meantime, a constant battle existed between getting "better" and desiring to retreat into a new world—a world I could neither understand nor manage. The simple process of thinking required an enormous amount of mental and physical energy, leaving me exhausted many times. Friends and family helplessly stood by, wanting desperately to provide care and support. They searched for the missing "me," but even I was unable to find myself. The little nuances of life were elusive; I left burners on and cabinet doors open, and my checkbook looked like the work of a young child. At this time, I felt small, fragile and threatened. With frightening uncertainty I wondered what was replacing the "me" that was missing.

(Continues...)

---

Excerpted from My Daze of Brain Injury by Robin J. Bloom Copyright © 2012 by Robin J. Bloom, MEd. Excerpted by permission of BALBOA PRESS. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

---