Out of the Darkness: a remarkable story

What a difference a year makes

2010-08-18T08:39:00.000-06:00

It was exactly one year ago today that I began this blog. The night before, I saw the movie “Julie and Julia” and it sparked something. It’s funny how that happens. There you are minding your own movie-watching business and whack an idea floods in, an idea so powerful that it crowds out all other thoughts. I had difficulty at times concentrating on the movie.

I’d been working with a spiritual coach, Melodie Matice for about a month. Earlier that day at the end of our session she says, “OK, now, what about the book.” I was surprised, because we hadn’t talked about the book.

The next morning, I walked down to the basement, dusted off two plain boxes and pulled the contents that contained my life from 12 years, two months and five days ago. My first blog entry was on this very day—August 18^th--last year.

So, the journey began. Some things develop a life of their own. Some things have a path of their own. And so it is with this project, this process of telling this tale.

I’ve been busy, very busy. So much has happened. I’ll spend the next couple of blogs sharing some of this.

Oh, the places you’ll go!

2010-02-11T07:41:00.000-07:00

You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes.
You can steer yourself
any direction you choose.
You're on your own.
And you know what you know.
And YOU are the one who'll decide where to go.

What is Traumatic Brain Injury?

A traumatic brain injury (TBI) is caused by a blow or jolt to the head or a penetrating head injury that disrupts the normal function of the brain. Not all blows or jolts to the head result in a TBI. The severity of a TBI may range from “mild,” i.e., a brief change in mental status or consciousness to “severe,” i.e., an extended period of unconsciousness or amnesia after the injury.

How many people have TBI?
TBIs contribute to a substantial number of deaths and cases of permanent disability annually. Of the 1.4 million who sustain a TBI each year in the United States:

50,000 die;
235,000 are hospitalized; and
1.1 million are treated and released from an emergency department.

Signs and Symptoms

The signs and symptoms of a traumatic brain injury (TBI) can be subtle. Symptoms of a TBI may not appear until days or weeks following the injury or may even be missed as people may look fine even though they may act or feel differently. The following are some common signs and symptoms of a TBI:

Headaches or neck pain that do not go away;
Difficulty remembering, concentrating, or making decisions;
Slowness in thinking, speaking, acting, or reading;
Getting lost or easily confused;
Feeling tired all of the time, having no energy or motivation;
Mood changes (feeling sad or angry for no reason);
Changes in sleep patterns (sleeping a lot more or having a hard time sleeping);
Light-headedness, dizziness, or loss of balance;
Nausea;
Increased sensitivity to lights, sounds, or distractions;
Blurred vision or eyes that tire easily;
Loss of sense of smell or taste; and
Ringing in the ears.

SEE FOOTNOTE

At the age of sixteen, Julien Modica was an Olympic hopeful. His sport, pole-vaulting. In 1976, Julien was the Virginia State Champion pole-vaulter and was on his way to greater heights when an accident during one of his practices left him in a coma for thirteen days. The severe brain injury he suffered left him paralyzed on the left side, unable to walk, and an attention span of a couple of minutes. But with perseverance and hard work, he completed a BS in physics from American University in 1987, a Masters in Public Heath from Eastern Virginia Medical school in 2003, a Masters in Public Policy from George Mason University and has gone on to become a tireless advocate for people with brain injuries.

Q: Tell us what your process involved in the early days of your recovery?

JM: Very early recovery was me trying for months (hours every day) to straighten my left arm through various “home made” techniques and while using the wall for balance I stood for minutes and then hours trying to shift my weight from the left side to the right side and then back again.

Q: When did you know you had “recovered” from your brain injury?

JM: I fully recovered on three levels: physically, cognitively, and emotionally. After each level, I just instinctively felt whole again. After I fully recovered emotionally, I felt more whole than I had for each of the previous two levels. I can describe my feelings each time through a sense of relief, and each time the feeling was so overwhelming it brought tears to my eyes. I can also remember precisely where I was each time full recovery happened.

Q: How has your brain injury made you a better person?

JM: I was very lucky in the sense that pre-morbidly I was a good student and good athlete. After my injury, I had lost everything, from my ability to perform academically to my ability to perform athletically. The path to full recovery I accepted within weeks of my injury is a path, I don’t believe, many people would have attempted. The act of following through on the promise I made to myself has made me a stronger and more mature person than I probably would have been simply because I have now experienced the very, very bottom and managed to pull myself back up.

Q: Do you have any regrets?

JM: Things you knew you would have been able to accomplish if the brain injury hadn’t occurred? My God, I have hundreds of regrets, but the one thing I don’t regret is having my two daughters with their mother. My daughters have grown to be as academically talented as their mother (a developmental pediatrician) and as athletically talented as me. Without my injury, I would have never met their mother and we would not have had our children.

Q: Nearly all of us who have experienced the devastating effects of a brain injury have had to cope with very dark, hopeless days. How did you get through yours? What helped you to keep going?

JM: Interesting question. The pure challenge of recovery has kept me motivated and out of necessity I quickly learned how to thrive off that challenge. Consequently, I have had very few dark days.

Q: I know you’ve just begun the long, difficult work of a congressional campaign in the 10^th district of Virginia. Tell us about that .

JM: I believe the community where I was injured and where I have recovered, the 10^th District of Virginia, has been essential to what I have accomplished. My recovery has been touched by Virginians throughout the 10^th District in ways that I will never truly understand and will never be able to repay. It is this sense of community that has made America strong. As a member of Congress, I will bring this same sense of community to the legislative process and, again, make government work for the 10^th District of Virginia.

Thank you Julien. We'll keep following you and touch base again. To find out move about Julien Modica, please contact him at 703-788-6636 or visit his website www.julienmodica.com or his blog http://julienmodica.com/blog/

************

You’ll get mixed up, of course, as you already know. You’ll get mixed up with many strange birds as you go. So be sure when you step. Step with care and great tact and remember that Life’s a Great Balancing Act. Just never forget to be dexterous and deft. And never mix up your right foot with your left.

And will you succeed?
Yes! You will, indeed!
(98 and ¾ percent guaranteed.)

Kid, you’ll move mountains!
So…be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray or Mordecai Ale Van Allen O’Shea, you’re off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting.
So…get on your way!

_______________________________________________________

FOOTNOTES:

Oh, the Places You'll Go! (ISBN 978-0-679-80527-4), written and illustrated by Dr. Seuss, 1990.

CDC - National Center for Injury Prevention and Control

Openings: Part I--I’m working on my opening paragraph and I could use your help.

2010-01-23T07:15:00.005-07:00

The infrequent postings in the last two months have been due to work and family events. I have continued to read and take copious of notes, but actual work on the book has been stalled. I haven’t written a respectable sentence in nearly 6 weeks.

In the last week though, I’ve settled into my routine again of getting up early, having my coffee by the warm fire and writing. Finally, the rough draft of Chapter 2 is complete (well, as complete as anything ever is when you’re writing a book). My goodness, I’ve delivered babies easier than this!

My goal now is to work the first three chapters into a cohesive flowing third draft.

One of the reference books I regularly use is, The Complete Book of Novel Writing by Meg Leder, Jack Heffron and the editors of Writer’s Digest. The chapter, The Fifty-Page Dash by Dave King, an independent editor, discussed the all important “hook” that must grab the reader in the first fifty pages. He goes on the say that the opening pages are where the writer must create the tension to drive the reader onward, that the conflict for the main character must be compelling and link to the plot through subsequent scenes.

After my Chapter 1 was critiqued by the Boulder Writer’s Meetup Group, I put it aside. I only meant for that to be a week or two, but it’s been a couple of months now. One of the critiques was that my Chapter 1, which ends at the scene of the car accident, might be a better chapter five. Um! I’ll give that some thought. Other comments included: the characters have clear, distinct voices, but need to be more interesting, quirky; there’s a gentle sweetness to the chapter, but there needs to be more tension; show some bad behavior about the marriage gone bad; embellish the scenes more; dialogue needs to be more forceful; the chapter is constrained by the facts; it’s not believable how perfect the main character’s life is; the characters are real, believable and comfortable to get to know; great style; there’s a richness to the mother and daughters’ relationships; the chapter opens too slowly, it needs to grab the reader’s attention better; needs more action. I very much appreciated those people who took their time to read and comment on this first chapter. It helps a great deal.

I’m working on my opening paragraph and I could use your help. I’ll be posting four or five samples of an opening paragraph, which may turn out to be the opening page and would like your opinion. The basic question is: does this hook you? Would buy the book based on just this? If it doesn’t hook you, your comments would be most helpful.

The sun is rising. It’ll be a reasonably warm January day. Something got done during today’s writing time.

Death changes things for the living.

2010-01-11T07:46:00.004-07:00

It’s been a little over four months since this project began—blogging about writing my book Out of the Darkness. And, as one might imagine, life happens, things change.

Kevin’s mother died on Monday the 14^th of December. His father died on a Monday too. It was also the 14^thof the month. It was seventeen months ago.

I came late in their lives. I didn’t get to know them well. But, in the aftermath--the chores of cleaning up a life or lives--I am getting to know them. It makes me smile. Kevin is so much like each of them in different ways. The nut doesn’t fall too far from the tree.

Kevin’s poem to his mother:

Release

Descending:

An anxious breeze

A fractured, rustling scape,

Unsettled mind

Swirling, amorphous shapes.

Transcending:

The thinning veil

A sparkling curtain of light,

The beckoning hands of her lover

From the other side.

Resurgent hope and promises to keep

Melt into a euphoric peace.

Ascending:

Mesmerized by that dazzling light

Drawing her softly to the source,

Sans fright. She acquiesces willingly

To its all-enveloping serenity.

One of the themes of the book-Out of the Darkness--is ascension to hope.

Darkness turns into light/hope. Death becomes rebirth. Endings transition into beginnings.

It is my belief that all energy simply transforms itself and that there is never an ending in the way we might think.

The day after my father died nearly seven years ago now, I saw him. I did. I was sitting in the family room in my big chair for my morning meditation. I opened my eyes and there he stood. Before me was not the old frail man who had just died, but my father about the age of 40, dark wavy hair, handsome, lean. He was wearing khaki pants and a white button down shirt and dark loafers. He didn’t speak to me, but simply smiled. And that smile spoke a thousand words and I was shown briefly, very briefly the beauty, peace and love from the other side.

Kevin’s parents are on that side now. Their human pain and suffering is over. The anxiety, the fear, the loneliness have been transformed into peace, love and belonging.

Death changes things for the living, because death transforms us.

With Gratitude: Part One

2009-12-06T06:05:00.002-07:00

With Gratitude: Part One

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Broken Brain-Brilliant Mind, The Story of Alicia, It's a Wonderful Life, Second Chance to Live.

2009-11-29T10:42:00.006-07:00

I've been following a blog called Broken Brain-Brilliant Mind (excellent title) by a fellow who has sustained multiple MTBIs (which is more common than you might imagine; think about how one keeps hitting a sore thumb). He doesn't identify himself by name or location (he explains why and I think he has some good points) but writes a lot and has a lot of good resources. His post the other day (the day before Thanksgiving) about his plan for handling all the activity of a holiday nicely describes what must go on behind the scenes for people with brain injuries. I remember needing to plan like this. I simply could NOT handle the noise and activity. I couldn't follow a conversation. So, I would have an escape plan; an excuse. When I got overwhelmed (which happened very quickly when I was first injured) I couldn't think and then the headache would come on and I would be debilitated... again. Consequently, I spent a lot of time alone. I lost friends (it's hard to maintain friendships when you don't call people back). I never answered the telephone (and now, unfortunately, that's a habit that remains).

This fellow also goes on about the hope he has for a full recovery. Where would we be without hope. He quotes Winston Churchill: "Never, never, never give up." Somewhere early in my healing process, I got a postcard from a friend (the source never identified her/himself) with this exact quote. It stayed on my refrigerator for years.

He posted a link to this documentary about Alicia who suffered a TBI about seven years ago. There are nine episodes from the documentary on YouTube. It's amazing what the power of the human spirit can do. She pulled herself (with the help of her family and care providers) out of the depths of her injuries and has fulfilled her dream to become an actress and this documentary tells her story.

I didn't want this experience. I didn't ask for this. I didn't want a brain injury. But who does? Who wants this kind of trouble to land in their lap? Who wants to have to work hard for years and years to overcome problems like these? These blogs, videos and stories I'm reading/watching are about amazingly courageous people.

We're in the season of It's a Wonderful Life. I mentioned a little about this in my last post. I first saw this movie many years ago and now watch it every year after Thanksgiving. In fact, for the last bunch of years, I watch it more than once, alone. My family will no longer tolerate it. As schmaltzy as this is, it brings me hope. It brings me joy! There is so much symbolism in this movie for me. So much! Even down to the fact that when the depression hit, and it slapped me hard, and I became suicidal and I had my plan in place and I was going to leave my children without a mother (I actually thought they'd be better off without me), my angel was Clarence. I swear to you! The real life person that brought me back from the brink of suicide was named Clarence.

Clarence is a friend of a friend. I knew him a little, not a lot. I ran into him in Boulder in May of 1999 and he said, "I heard you had a car accident." He asked me how I was doing. I said, "Fine." Which was true, because, when you're actively suicidal, you are fine; all the pain and suffering is going to be over soon. He said, "Well I have a little experience overcoming medical problems, could we get together for lunch some time?" And that was the beginning of an unbelieveably incredible set of events that brought me out of the darkness. I will post some selections from the book about this when they're ready.

Second Chance to Live is a website/blog I ran across today. I love his phrase: Through my process I have learned a valuable lesson. I am not my traumatic brain injury, my deficits or my limitations.

Here are some statistics I believe are worth sharing:

121 million people worldwide suffer from depression. (The World Health Organization)
18 million of these cases are happening in the United States. (The National Institute of Mental Health)
Two-thirds of those suffering from depression never seek treatment.
Untreated depression is the number one cause of suicide.
Almost four times as many men commit suicide as women. (NIMH)
Someone takes their life every 16 minutes in the US.
Suicide is preventable.

Resources:

Suicide Prevention Lifeline
The website To Write Love on Her Arms which I wrote just a bit about in my last post. This is a wonderful project. Share it with others!

New Orleans is LOUD

2009-11-24T07:31:00.006-07:00

I was in New Orleans last week for the annual ASHA (American Speech-Language Hearing Association) convention with ten thousand other speech pathologists and audiologists from the US and Canada.

Our hotel was just two blocks from the French Quarter a lovely and amazing historic section of New Orleans that is a must see.

On our first night, we walked the streets a bit looking for a place for dinner. We had a couple of restaurant suggestions, like ACME Oyster House, but there was a very long wait and we were all starving after a long day of travel.

We wandered the streets a while longer and happened upon K Joe's Cajun & Creole Cuisine. What an amazingly wonderful find. It was early in the evening and the restaurant was quiet, although not for long, because we kept waving people in who stopped to read the menu displayed out front. They were mostly other people from the convention.

Our waiter, Andrew was friendly and efficient. Travis, the owner/GM came over to the table and chatted with us. He brought us freshly made crackers with a hot spicy jelly and cream cheese. I could have eaten just that for dinner. It was amazing.

I had the blackened catfish. It was perfectly moist and the etouffee sauce was tangy and of a good consistency, although, I'm not the best judge of etouffee, being new to Creole cuisine.

Travis promised to show us the upstairs private dining room and the Chris Owens room after our dinner. Wow! Beautiful decor. I'd love to arrange a private party! He showed us the back patio and explained it was still in the development stages; the restaurant had only been opened for two months.
And wow! Chris Owens, what a woman!

We finished up our experience at K-Joes' with Mardi Gras beads, with without expectation (wink).

Then we were off to, were else, Bourbon Street. It was loud, smelly and bawdy. But I had the Bourdon Street experience, minus the Bourbon. Loud music spilled out into the street. Live music. Rock n’ Roll. Jazz. We ended up at a karaoke club, Cat’s Meow.

I had just met the ladies I was with. ASHA has a find-a-roommate section of their website for the convention and my roommate (a lovely gal from Boston) had a friend who had a friend who had a friend, etc. There were about eight of us.

Well, the ladies stopped along our walk on Bourbon Street to slug down Hurricanes, a fruity rum kind of drink, I think, in plastic to-go cups. So, by the time we got to the Cat’s Meow, they were feeling just fine. It was funny. They were funny. Very funny.

New Orleans in LOUD. There’s noise in the streets, the cable cars clang, the riverboats whale, music blares from open windows and patios, even the elevators and airport shuttle blast loud music.

The week was full. There is much to tell. Of significance, though was that I am proud of my profession. There are a lot of people doing a lot of good things. I am proud that we, as a group of people are compassionate and caring. When I talked about the work I do with transgender people, there was only kindness and support. It should always be like that.

But, it isn’t. While I was in New Orleans, the transgender community had their annual nationwide Transgender Day of Remembrance for honoring people who are murdered by the hands of others because they are transgendered.

I didn't get much writing done while I was in New Orleans. I could barely think with all the noise.

Laptops and lattés

2009-11-16T06:32:00.015-07:00

Last Saturday was the day! My Chapter 1, Saturday June 13, was critiqued. I meant to post this blog the next day, but that meeting sparked so many ideas, that I’ve been working feverishly all week. I'm getting Chapter 2 down on paper, but haven’t had a spare neuron to devote to finishing this post (which I began last Saturday). I decided to stop re-working Chapter 1 so I could let the critique and all the thoughts it created settle into some kind of order.

The Boulder Writers Meetup Group meets in the back room at The Cup on Pearl Street in Boulder every Saturday morning. The Cup is a hopping place where the cognescenti of Boulder gather with their laptops, lattés and introspective glances to no one in particular.

There were about ten of us and mine was second of the two pieces that were presented. It worked for me; definitely! I loved hearing the impressions people had of my writing, and what worked and what didn’t work about the chapter. What was very meaningful to me was how people related to the characters, what they thought of them and how they interpreted their personalities and their relationships to each other. I was pleased that some people got what I was trying to convey and connected some of the symbolic elements. Without a doubt, the comments were valuable (whether they were positive or negative) and I will make use of them. Thank you group!

But, I was and still am quite overwhelmed.

Out of the Darkness isn’t actually a story about a car accident; it could have been a story about a death, a diagnosis of cancer or the broken heart of a wife after 20 years of devotion to her husband which ends in him leaving her for a younger woman.

Out of the Darkness is about the events that occur after one single instant that changes the course of a life. What are those instances that change us forever? Those moments that are never anticipated and can’t be denied. It’s about the hurdles the character faces in overcoming the ravages of her brain and body and the journey she takes to repair her life.

It’s a bad-things-happen-to-good-people story. It’s a something-goes-amiss story. It’s a self-against-self story.

In the Flemish morality play, Everyman (c. 1500), the character is representative of all of us--the human race. When Everyman is summoned by death, he discovers that his friends Fellowship, Kindred, Cousin, and Goods will not go with him. It is Good Deeds, whom he previously neglected, who finally supports him and who offers to justify him before the throne of God.

In literature and drama, the term "everyman" has come to mean an ordinary individual, with whom the audience or reader is supposed to be able to identify, who is often placed in extraordinary circumstances.

So, is Camryn an Everywoman? Is she an ordinary woman? Camryn is a divorced mother of two children; she’s back at school for an advanced degree, works full time, cleans the house, cooks dinners, does the laundry, makes Halloween costumes for the kids and bakes Christmas cookies each December. She is summoned by death when she faces the extraordinary task of overcoming a brain injury and chronic pain.

There are so many of us who suffer. I ran across a website over the weekend To Write Love on her Arms

We’ve learned that two out of three people who struggle with depression never seek help, and that untreated depression is the leading cause of suicide. In America alone, it’s estimated that 19 million people live with depression, and suicide is the third-leading cause of death among those 18-24 years old.

The good news is that depression is very treatable, that a very real hope exists in the face of these issues. We’ve met people who are getting the help they need, sitting across from a counselor for the first time, stepping into treatment, or reaching out to a suicide hotline in a desperate moment.

There are those who suffer and are those who reach out. Someone reached out to me. His name is Clarence; it was my George Bailey moment.

Where’s the damn fault line?

2009-11-05T06:44:00.005-07:00

Ugh! Yesterday was rough. I’m just so stuck on Chapter 2. My chapter 1 (draft 2) is being critiqued this Saturday by the Boulder Writer’s Meetup Group. I’ve attended a couple of times now. It’s a good group. The critiques are hard, but solid and thoughtful.

I’ve been writing a ton and reading a ton. I’m currently devouring Lucky, by Alice Sebold. It’s an amazing story--her first, her memoir. Wow, my own sad tale pales in comparison!

I’ve been reading a lot of first books/novels/memoirs and then the same author’s second novel and third and so on. It’s fun to see the progression, the development of their voices, the evolution of their skills. But somewhere in me, I think my first novel has to be this amazingly brilliant work, and the truth is—I don’t have that skill yet. Ugh!

Winston Churchill once said, ''Writing a book is an adventure. To begin with, it is a toy and an amusement; then it becomes a mistress, and then it becomes a master, and then a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster, and fling him out to the public.''

So, I believe I’m somewhere between my book being my lover and my master. I love it and I am a slave to it. I dream about it (literally and figuratively). I loathe it. The process of writing, of trying to craft something for which I have little skill, is both a marvelous journey into the souls of these characters, who are asking me to tell their story, and a mad obsession to dance with the monster.

I’m relying on my experience as an avid reader, the fact that I have a story to tell and that I’m a talker (verbal story teller), but writing and writing well is an entirely different thing. I'll never be a Margaret Atwood or Joyce Carol Oates. And I’m trying to do this on top of a full time job/career (which I love and love spending time doing), the family, blah, blah, blah!

A part of me (big part of me) would love to be able to write full time; to spend my early mornings like I do now sitting peacefully (although the brain storm in my mind the last two days hasn’t been any fun) for a few hours; then go for a run; then come back and write/edit for a few more hours; then have lunch with a girlfriend; then come home and read, maybe clean the house (on second thought, no); then have dinner with Kevin make a few phone calls to family and friends; read; then off to sleep. Yes, I would love my days to be filled this way.

But, in order to do the above, a writer has to be published, so there’s an income. The mortgage, utilities, car payment and student loan debt demand their due. And in order to become published, a writer has to have a completed book. And in order to have a completed book, a writer has to carefully craft the book. And then, here I am all over again, back at the beginning. I doubt that I have the skill to craft this monster.

I’m in a master mind group and we’re reading Think and Grow Rich. As I was lamenting my current state as a failing writer yesterday morning to Kevin, he reminded me of the story about Darby (an interesting sign and a story for another time) and his gold mine. The story goes that this character named RH Darby had a dream of finding gold ”out west” and heads for Colorado. He gets some equipment and a small crew and has a little success—he finds GOLD. But the vein dries up quickly and he abandons his dream and sells the equipment to the junk man. Well, the junk man is no dummy. So, he finds himself a mining engineer, uses the equipment he purchased dirt cheap from ol’ Darby and strikes it BIG. The junk man takes millions of dollars of ore from the mine. As it turns out, Darby was only three feet from the mother lode, but he didn't know it.

The moral of story: never, never, never give up. Find an expert if need be (the mining engineer steered to junk man to the fault line where the gold was). Before success comes, most people are met with temporary defeat.

I’m listening to Kevin and thinking to myself--ok, this is good, I know this, I’ve had this experience before, on all my fingers and toes a hundred times over--I know this experience of defeat and doubt.

I’ve been given a second chance at life that most people do not have. I’ve had to persevere through some of the roughest things life can throw at someone. And if I had given up, well, this story would never have been told.

I guess that damn fault line is right around here somewhere—I’m only a mere three feet from success!

Oh, the bloggers

2009-10-28T16:32:00.015-06:00

I went to the Front Range Bloggers Meetup on Monday night. What an engaging, talented entrepreneurial group of people. They’re out there; they’re in here; they’re making it happen. I was impressed! So, this is where the kids who were in the chess club, had science fair projects and were in the 4-H Club ended up. Good to know.

In contrast, the Boulder’s Writers Meetup was a quiet bunch. They were polite, but small talk didn’t come easily. This is where the English majors go. The two pieces we critiqued were well crafted and the comments were solid and direct; I like that. I’ll definitely go back.

So, where do I fit in? I’m a talker really. I’m a speaker. I certainly identify as a writer, but blogging is too new. I don’t know if I’m a blogger. But, I like to say the word. BL – AH – GG –ER… blaaaaaaaaaaaah…ggggggggggeeeeeeerrrrrr. Yes, it’s a good word. I like the way it feels in my mouth.

Blogger.

It’s a cold snowy Wednesday. Most of my patients canceled today and the others I called to reschedule. We have nearly a foot of snow at my house and we’re just at the beginning of the storm.

My writing time got off to a scattered start today. Oh, I was up, coffee made and at my laptop by 5:30 AM, but I decided to play with my emerging blogger identity. So, I used some of the strategies I learned. After prowling around the internet for over three hours, I was able to figure out how Google Analytics works, I signed on to Evernote (this seems like a good idea to track my internet prowling), and I posted a some comments on a few blogs related to brain injuries. I got a new URL in my name, which points back to this blog. I’ll design it as both a website for the book and my blog site. But for now, it’s just my blog, because… I guess… I’m a blogger now.

Blogger.

Just coffee, words and me

2009-10-22T13:24:00.003-06:00

I was lying in bed for about a half an hour; mentally working this one character for the book. The clock read 5:25 and Kevin leans over and whispers to me. “It’s time to get up and write.” The house is cold; we turn the heat down at night. It’s difficult to get up out of my warm cozy bed, but here I am up like a shot!

“You love this time of day, don’t you,” he continued.

“Yes, I do. It’s just coffee, words and me.”

So, here I sit, the fireplace is warming the room. I’ve just taken my first sip of coffee. The house is quiet. This alone time is heavenly. It is essential. It is my time with the creative energy that brought me back from the darkness; that sustained me when I thought there was no hope; that showed me my purpose again when there was none.

Just coffee, words and me-a fine trio of friends.

Thoughts meander in and out of my mind; some of them actually make it to a page. I resist the powerful urge to check emails and my friends on Facebook. But, I sneak over there a few times anyway.

It’s been a little over two months since I found my inspiration to work on the book, and thus blog about it. Inspiration is a funny thing. It’s there or it isn’t (I guess). I was at my friend Jeanne’s house warming party at the end of the summer and was talking about the book and the blog, and someone asked, “Is this for real, or is it just your latest, greatest obsession.” That gave me pause. Did this inspiration have sustainability? After all, I finished the first draft in January 2001 and I hadn’t touched the book again until August 2009. I doubt myself sometimes (OK, a lot). I have a busy life--the kids, Kevin, my practice/business,other family members, my friends, running, gardening, knitting, hiking, traveling and the occasional domestic chores (I wouldn’t win a house-wife of the year award). Honestly,how does one get all of this done? But, it is getting done. I write every day (well, nearly every day). I’m writing ten or more hours a week. There have been massive changes to the book. And many more changes will come.

I have a writing buddy now. We met for the first time last Friday to share our thoughts, processes and work. We’ve agreed to meet once a month.

I’ve connected with some folks in Boulder. The Boulder Writer’s Meetup Group meets on Saturday mornings. I’ll attend my first meeting this Saturday.

I’ve also heard from a friend of a friend on Facebook about a bloggers meetup group. So, I’m going to attend that also and see what the bloggers have to say.

Are these simply distractions? Maybe. Or are they useful endeavors to help me along on my journey? Hopefully.

I’ll let you know.

There is a solution

2009-10-13T09:23:00.006-06:00

I love my life! This morning is a gray cold October day. The fireplace is on. The house is still. The air outside is still. The leaves are turning. This huge Ash tree in the back yard usually turns a brilliant yellow before the leaves fall to the grown, but not this year. The brown leaves hold firmly to the branches.

I woke up with a severe headache. This doesn’t often happen anymore. It used to terrify me, because it symbolically spoke of how damaged I was. It limited me; I couldn’t lift my head off the pillow. I’d feel trapped and the fear would grow and the pain would consume me. How many days I was late for work because of this, I couldn’t say. But, this morning, after 11 years of experience, when I awoke and my neck screamed and my head pounded, I lay there and breathed. I meditated. With each in-breath I imagined space at the base of my skull. I smiled inwardly. I breathed softness to the muscles around my eyes and forehead and I fell back to sleep for two hours (so my morning writing time got off to a late start). I feel fine now; still a bit of a lingering head and neck ache, but they’re tolerable.

Down in the basement in those two boxes I tucked away eight years ago that hold the draft of my book, Out of the Darkness: a remarkable story, and newspaper clippings and notepads and my memories, I found an article in The Journal of Cognitive Rehabilitation, (a publication for the therapist, family and patient) that I wrote in the May/June 1999 issue. It’s the strangest thing. It’s like some fairy tale character who awakens and realizes there had been places she’s gone and things she had done, but it was like someone’s else’s life. I have no memory of writing the article or that it laid in that box for years. I think I'll see if they're interested in an update.

It’s time for a run. Oh, and it’s the 13th of the month, so it’s a day of celebration!

No matter how big a problem you seemingly face, there is a solution. Mine today, is to focus on life, love, health and happiness. May you find yours.

And then what happened … from Chapter 4, Tuesday

2009-10-07T07:34:00.013-06:00

To the numbers of you who have commented and spoken to me about this blog, thank you. Your comments and kind support are very appreciated and I’m thrilled to hear that you’re enjoying it.

My intent is to actively blog about my experience with, and recovery from a traumatic brain injury, and to share selections from the “book” as I edit it (which is nearly a complete rewriting of it).

As a refresher to those who haven’t read the pages here in their entirety, this blog began in mid-August this year after a session I had with my wellness coach, Melodie Matice, who encouraged me to complete the book. I suffered a traumatic brain injury and other physical problems after an automobile accident in 1998. On October 23, 1998, I awoke from a dream of sorts with the book title, character names, chapter outlines and a voice in my head that said, “write the book.” So, I did. Two years later, I put it aside. It was an awful first draft; a cathartic self-absorbed rant really. I meant to get back to it, but was busy healing and recovering and I guess ultimately completing my own story; finishing the work that needed to be done to put humpty-dumpty back together again. In January 2001, when the book was put aside, there was no happy ending. There was no hope.

To those who have asked, the book has not yet been published, because, again, it really was just a crappy first draft. I’ve been happily writing almost every day and making massive changes. It will get published eventually, but it’s far from ready.

We last left Camryn sitting in the physical therapist's office embraced in a memory of Salvatore (blog dates: Saturday, August 29, and Friday, September 11, 2009).

*************************************************

“Are you Camryn?” There was kindness in his deep resonant voice.

“Yes”

“I’m Baxter, Baxter Stanwood. Please come in,” he turned and slowly walked into the inner offices and entered the room on the left.

As Camryn stood up to follow him, she saw that the older couple was gone and a woman with out of control gray hair was sitting in one of the chairs, her head leaning against the wall, eyes closed and mouth agape.

The room looked like a small gym with foam pads strewn around, therapy balls, free weights, benches and an exam table. Baxter sat on a large red ball and motioned for her to sit in a chair next to the desk.

“I see here from Dr. Siemens’ notes from yesterday that you had a motor vehicle accident Saturday night. That’s great that you’re in here so quickly. Tell me more about what happened.” She repeated the story for the second, but it wouldn’t most certainly be the last time.

“The headache bothers me a lot. And lights and sounds are too much. It’s like everything just got brighter and louder. Why is that?”

“How are you today?”

“I’m sore and still stiff. It feels like my head is too heavy, like my neck muscles aren’t strong enough to hold it up.”

“Have you filled the prescription for the pain medication that Dr. Siemens gave you yesterday?” he glanced down at the chart again.

“No.”

“Why don’t you go ahead and do that. It’ll help. What he’s ordered in a non-narcotic medication and a muscle relaxer. One of the reasons you’re experiencing pain is that some of your muscles are tightening as a result of the jarring they received in the accident. The problems you're having with light and sound are something different.”

“Ok, I think I have that prescription,” she said as she shuffled through her purse. “I know it’s in here somewhere.”

“Well, let me know if you can’t find it,” he said softly, “and I’ll have Dr. Siemens fill out another one.”

“OK”

Baxter placed the chart on the desk and gestured for her to sit on the exam table. He faced her. “Before I begin my exam, I’m going to tell you three words. Listen carefully. It’s important that you remember them. Ready?” He looked her in the eyes.

“Apple, Bicycle, Pencil,” he said slowly, “be sure to remember them.” He spent the next forty-five minutes asking her to do various maneuvers, turns and bends. He asked her to resist while he pushed down, then up on her arms, then left, right, forward and backward to her head. He periodically made notes in her chart, then asked her to do a few additional maneuvers.

He sat back down on the red ball and explained some of his findings, then referred back to the chart. “You know, it says here that Dr. Siemens thinks you may have suffered a traumatic brain injury.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, he wrote that he mentioned this to you.”

“Oh!”

“So, what do you think of that?”

“I don’t know. I think I’m OK.”

“Dr. Siemens’ note says you got lost on the way here yesterday.”

“Oh, yes, I guess I did.”

“Doesn’t that seem a bit out of the ordinary?”

“I don’t think so, I was never at this office before.”

“How long have you lived in Boulder?”

“OK, I got lost getting here yesterday,” she said as her annoyance edged to the surface.

He stood, moved the red ball closer to her and touched her on the arm. “All I’m saying is that we see this kind of thing here in this office every day. It's just possible that the jarring effects from the impact of the accident caused a mild brain injury.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Tell me the three words I asked you to remember.” She couldn’t. She sighed.

“Think of it like this, the brain is an uncooked egg inside a hard plastic container. Now, imagine that you throw the container as hard as you possibly can against the wall. The plastic container looks fine, but the egg inside is scrambled. The soft tissue of the surface of the brain gets torn and sheared as it bangs against the hard surface of the skull. Some of the symptoms of a mild brain injury, which is sometimes called post-concussive syndrome, include headaches, confusion, short-term memory loss, slowed thinking,” he could see her agitation growing, “and a few other things.”

“You think this happened to me?”

“Yes, it’s possible. I agree with Dr. Siemens’ suggestion that you see the speech therapist and schedule an appointment with the psychologist for a neuro-psychological exam.”

“OK, I’ll think about it.”

“Great! I’ll see you Thursday at 2:00 pm.”

Camryn would grow to have a great fondness for Baxter. He lived in downtown Boulder in a renovated bungalow with his partner of twenty years. He described himself and Jim as an old married couple with their two dogs and quiet lifestyle.

Boulder Marathon – triumph!

2009-09-21T07:51:00.007-06:00

I’m up early every (almost) day. On Saturday morning, during my writing time, I sneaked a peak at my Facebook page and saw a post from Naomi saying that there had been an injury and that they now needed someone to run one of the legs of their relay team for the Boulder Marathon. I jumped right in it.

So, yesterday I got up early, and instead of writing, I stretched while the coffee was brewing, changed into my running clothes, took my coffee with me in a to-go mug and arrived at 6:30 am at Breakworks to meet Naomi, we then drove to the Boulder Reservoir. As we walked from the cars, the sun began warming the morning air, I had butterflies in my stomach as I always do before a race (I don’t know why, this was definitely a low pressure race).

The relay was divided into four parts the first leg 6.5 miles was run by me; the second leg 7.3 miles, which was the most difficult leg, was run by Elise; the third leg 6.3 miles was run by Kate and the final leg 6.1 miles was run by Naomi. Our total finish time was just under five hours.

The course begins and ends at the Reservoir. Naomi and Elise cheered me off as I ran across the start/finish line with my “I ♥ Gluten” tee-shirt (we’re running for Breakworks Bakery & Café).

As we headed west, the foothills standing before me, I smile. I hear the rhythmic sounds of hundreds of feet as they run in front of me, next to me and behind me and I smile, because I’m running. In March 2005, when I had my last bad flare-up of pain, I could barely walk. I had trouble with stairs, I had difficulty doing physical things when the pain was like that and now I’m running! And I begin my prayer, “thank you God for giving me a strong, healthy, pain free body and the ability to run.”

We head north on a dirt road and the crowd spreads out. Most of the rest of the course is a pleasant meander through the back roads of Boulder County. At mile one, my time is 11:19. I’m pleased. The long hill leading to mile marker one only put me back a little. At mile two, my time is 22:00. Yes! The rest of my leg of the race is great. I arrive at the first relay point and Elise is waiting for me. My total time is just under 75 minutes, which is about 11:30 minute mile. I thought I’d be able to finish at closer to an 11 minute mile, but I’m pleased. This wasn’t my fastest race, but it was one of my best in the few short years I’ve been running again.

Just before the car accident I’d been running 25 to 30 miles a week at a 8:30 mile pace. My long runs on the weekends were about an hour and a half. I had just finished my first half-marathon at just over two hours, which is about a 9 minute mile pace.

I didn’t run for a couple of weeks after the accident because I was sore all over. I actually don’t remember much of this, but from what I wrote, when I’d run I would fatigue so quickly. Then a strange thing began happening which scared me—a lot! I would get shaky and off balance every time I ran, like a drunken sailor. I asked my physical therapist what was happening to me and I don’t think he knew or I don’t remember what he said. Then the more I ran the more pain I experienced. The neck pain and headaches were debilitating for days and days. Sometimes I couldn’t get out of bed the pain was so bad. Running seemed to bring on an exacerbation.

Running of the Green, an easy 5K in Denver had been the first race I had ever run. And in March 1999, it was the last time I ran. It was an awful race, I had to walk most of it. But, triumph reigned! My daughter Meghann and I ran it this year and we had a great time.

I’m going to run the whole Boulder Marathon one day!

Life changing moments- September 17

2009-09-17T06:38:00.003-06:00

In the small hours of Saturday morning September 17th 1983, I got to meet the small child who had been sharing my body for the last ten months. Gestation for a human baby is thirty-eight to forty weeks, which is more than nine months.

She arrived three days before she was due. I’d been sleeping poorly; there is no good, comfortable position for puffy, swollen, large pregnant women in the days before delivery.

It was a Friday night and we’d just finished dinner when she let us know we’d be meeting her soon. We arrived at Boulder Community Hospital around 11:00 pm. The labor and delivery floor was packed. There had been a huge blizzard around Christmas and we knew we weren’t the only ones spending some cozy hours at home on those snow packed days.

The sweet sound of her first cry was quickly followed by an overwhelming tenderness, then a love I had never felt. It was different, part animal instinct, part motherly love. I would do anything for this child. Then she was handed to me and I kissed her wet face and examined her fingers and toes and placed her on my chest and then cried tears of exhaustion and joy.

At the moment of her birth, I was changed. I became a mother.

Happy 26th birthday honey!

Lucky 13

2009-09-13T07:11:00.015-06:00

Thirteen is my lucky number.

My car accident happened on June 13th. I faced death again (sigh) on November 13th when I choked on a pill. My swallowing has not been normal since the accident. It may be neurological, but my guess is that it's trauma based (more about that in another post). There are many other significant thirteens.

It was Saturday night, November 13, 2004. I had just come back from seeing a play Meghann was in at school. It was her senior year of high school. She was at the cast party. Shannon was living home again and was out with friends. I was alone. I’d been doing a dietary cleanse with some herbs someone suggested—I thought a detoxification might help with the chronic pain syndrome—I was in day ten of a fourteen day program. I swallowed eight pills twice a day and was having very few problems. I was being careful. As I took my nightly dosage, seven pills went down just fine and the eighth got stuck. I started coughing right away and I could feel the pill in my throat. I continued to cough hard and realized it was not coming up. I began to get alarmed. I coughed and coughed but, made no progress. The pill was stuck. I realized I needed help and reached for my cell phone to call a friend who lived down the street, but the phone was turned off and I was getting more and more frightened as I continued to cough and struggle to breathe. I phoned 911. The voice said, “What is your emergency?” I started to tell him, when I realized I couldn’t talk. I knew this was bad. The panic mounted. The 911 guy said, “Ma’me, what is your emergency?” I coughed out the word, “Choking.”

“Ma’me, is someone hurting you.”

“Choking.”

“Ma’me, is someone there with you.”

I was in a full blown panic attack by this time. A wild animal struggling to survive. I realized I was getting nowhere with the 911 guy and needed someone right then. So, I went to find a neighbor. It was 9:30 that cold Saturday night in November. I was in my pajamas, white terrycloth robe, wool socks, but no slippers. As I put my hand on the front doorknob I felt myself blacking out. “Oh no! We aren’t going to have ‘dead mother in the door way.’ My kids are not going to come home to that scene!”

I ran out in the street still gasping and coughing and looked to the left but, the neighbors lights were off. I looked across the street. The neighbors lights were on and I went there and pounded on the door.

Poor Allen! I scared him. He and his wife Pam are great people! We’ve since gotten to know them well through Bridge. Allen’s a master at it and taught some of us neighbors how to play. I thought Bridge would be good for my brain. It’s a great game.

Allen opens the door to me sputtering, coughing and hysterical in my PJs and robe holding my throat as I gasp for air. He yells, “Oh my God!” I indicate that I want him to do the Heimlich maneuver and he does it but, it doesn’t work. Pam comes over and I fall to the floor. I hear Allen on the phone, “My neighbor across the street is choking.” Pam rubs my back gently and I calm down. I was reading an article earlier in the day in Yoga Journal about relaxation and breathing. As Pam rubs my back in soft circular motions, my mind was instructing me, “In breath, out breath. In breath, out breath.”

The police were the first to arrive. “Ma’me has someone hurt you?” I’m brought back to the trauma of the moment. I try to answer him and can’t talk and feel the pill in my larynx and I panic all over again.

The fire guys come next-all ten of them, strong and young and gorgeous-and the Heimlich maneuver is tried and again it doesn’t work. They all stand around watching the coughing, struggling, slobbering mess I’ve become on the floor.

The paramedics come. A guy with horn-rimmed glasses pushes his way to the front of the crowd that has now gathered in Allen and Pam’s foyer. “Finally,” I think, “Someone is going to take charge of this situation and get me out of this mess.” He looks me straight in eyes. We are communicating telepathically. I knew if one more person tried to get me to talk, I’d lose it. He asks only yes-no questions. “Ma’me, would you like me to try the Heimlich maneuver?” I shake my head yes. When it didn’t work he said, “I’m going to hurt you if I keep trying this. Since you’re coughing, I’m going to just let this take its course. Is that all right?” I shake my head yes, drop to the floor coughing and gasping some more, but felt safe that I wasn’t alone in my struggle. In just a few more minutes I say, “Oh, I think it went down.” I can taste and I’m coughing up the power from the pill. I guess the gel coating finally dissolved.

I looked up to find two good friends from the neighborhood standing there. Pam must have called them. Sharon sees I’m breathing again and sitting calmly (somewhat) on the floor and offers, “Kathe, this is a hell of a way to get a date.” We all laugh.

The crowd begins to dissipate and the lead paramedic guy says, "Well I guess you’re OK," and begins to move toward the door when my good friends Paul and Sharon simultaneously yell, “No, she’s not.” They take me to the ER in Boulder. I’m still not breathing right. My chest is tight. I’m so hoarse I can barely talk. They give me a couple of nebulizer treatments which help tremendously and send me home with an Albuterol inhaler.

I’m traumatized. I can’t sleep. I can’t stop playing the scene over and over. I can’t eat. I’ll never swallow another pill.

I had a planned business trip to North Carolina for that week. As I’m flying home that Sunday, replaying the scene in my mind (it took some work to get that to stop), a thought occurs to me. It was sudden and definite. “Huh, I’m not dead.” Once again, death came knocking and I didn’t answer the door. I smiled. I was swept away by the thought. “Huh, I’m not dead.”

The most natural next thought came. What do you do when you’re not dead? When you could have been dead a couple times over and you’re not, what do you do? I asked all my friends. Finally, it was Melinda who says, “Well, you haven’t had a date in about ten years, why don’t you start there!” Great idea!

I got busy. She made me get online. Oh no! I’m not going to do this. “Where the hell else are you going to meet someone?” she barked. So, I did. I posted my photo and profile. I got three thousand hits. I had three dates in one day one Friday.

Kevin was the gem that shone brightest. As you already know, we met on January 13, 2005. I called him ‘beautiful Kevin’ (he’s going to hate that I’m writing this), because he is! He is the calm blue water to my hot red fire. He is the introvert to my extrovert. He is the Felix to my Oscar—we really are an odd couple in so many ways.

At first it was every June thirteenth that I celebrated life. Now, every thirteenth of the month we celebrate life, love, health and happiness.

Today is our anniversary—four years and eight months. Aw!

Laughter, glorious laughter!

2009-09-12T17:22:00.012-06:00

I don’t recall exactly when the laughter returned, but it’s been in full season since Kevin came into my life.

When my scrambled eggs for brains (a chapter title in the first draft of the book) began turning into more properly arranged axons and dendrites (the gray matter of the brain) and I was working more regularly and earning a more sustainable wage (yes!), a friend of mine said, “Well, now, how about your love life?” There had been several dates here and there, but I guess ultimately I wasn’t ready for love. I was still far from well.

While the brain was clearing up, the body most certainly was not. My cognitive-, speech-, and psycho- therapies had concluded sometime in 2002, I believe. I then began working with a new physical therapist that my new physician, Chris Centeno, MD had suggested. I was being instructed in how to use a therapy ball, foam roller and a TENS unit (Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulation) to manage the pain. Dr. Centeno offered a variety of other therapies and procedures that made an enormous difference in my life. He explained that the chronic pain syndrome I was experiencing was a direct result from the trauma to my brain. He used the term central (autonomic) nervous system dysfunction (fibromyalgia) and explained that my brain over reacts to stimuli from my body. This seemed bad! I hated the word fibromyalgia (although he didn’t use it). I knew enough about it from my patients over the years and from a dear friend who suffers from it, and I definitely did not want it myself! I hadn’t wanted a brain injury, and for that matter, I had wished the whole damned thing hadn’t happened to me.

The pain was awful. Walking, sitting for too long or even lying down all hurt. The pain woke me up. I slept a lot, but still never felt rested. The only place it didn’t hurt was in a warm bath. And one of the most maddening things about the chronic pain syndrome (I still won’t use the word fibromyalgia) was the exacerbations and remittances. There would be hours (at first), then days, then weeks of no pain and every time that happened-every time-I’d think, “Oh thank God that’s over.” Then I’d be struck again and it would rock my world. It would tear me apart emotionally. It hurt so much. I took so much ibuprofen it negatively impacted my health in other ways. I never took narcotics. I couldn’t fathom adding another problem (addiction) to the laundry list of problems I was already facing.

When I met Kevin in 2005, I was not well physically. I was still out of shape (I hadn’t run in seven years), but he didn’t seem to notice or didn’t seem to care or just decided not to mention it, and I am forever grateful for that.

It was a cold January night, a Thursday, the thirteenth. He was fifteen minutes late. On our second date, he was thirty minutes late. I thought to myself, if this thing works out, I’m going to have to let go of needing him to be on time. Kevin is time-challenged. It’s humorous sometimes, but mostly not.

Then the laughter started. He is so funny. Silly really. It’s been an ongoing circus, a lunacy, a King of Hearts, a play date with a five-year-old.

One time, he was in the kitchen preparing breakfast. He was going to make scrambled eggs. I was in the living room stretching after a run and I could see him crouched down in front of the cabinet below the island where the mixing bowls, cups and serving platters are stored. “Which vessel should I use for these eggs,” he called. “Kevin, ‘vessel?’” I roared.

The other day, I called him (as I often do during the day) while I was on an errand for work. I heard some muffled crackling noises and he was slow to say, "Hello." I figured he was struggling with the phone, because he was right in the middle of something. He said, “I’ll have to call you back. I’m transacting.”

Now, that may not seem funny to you, but I had to pull the car over I was laughing so hard. My eyes watered. I couldn’t see. My belly ached. My ribs hurt. I was still laughing uncontrollably when he phoned back moments later. “Kevin, ‘I’m transacting,’ who talks like that?” Kevin does. He’s precise. He’s exact. If you need a picture hung, he’ll whip out the level and measuring tape faster than you can say, “Jack Robinson.” He carries hardware in his pockets at all times; he’d put his level and tape measure in there if they’d fit. You never know when you’ll need a flashlight or pocket knife. He’s a boy scout without a troop, list in hand, items labeled and accounted for. He is precise and exact in word and deed.

Kevin is also multi-task-challenged. We were preparing dinner. He had a drink (I think it was limeade, his favorite) in his hand and I looked over at him, and a few minutes later I looked again, and then said, “I thought you were going to start chopping this onion.” He looked at his drink, then he looked at me and said, “I can’t possibly chop that onion right now, I’m sipping my limeade.” Another roll-on-the-floor fit of laughing erupted. And there’s more, much more.

I had my last big flair-up of pain in March 2005. It was Tuesday, March 15th, the ides of March. The pain was so bad that day that I couldn’t work. I had trouble walking, driving and thinking. I called a spiritual friend whose opinions matter greatly to me. I consider him someone who explores the inner workings of his heart and soul and he follows a path that looks beyond what we can feel, hear and touch with our physical senses. He suggested I pray. He suggested I be grateful for the experience I was having. I wanted to choke him! But, I was too weak to drive over there. We talked for quite awhile when I began to realize what he was getting at. What did I have to lose? I thought for a long time about what he said, then I began this prayer, “Thank you, God, for this pain. I don’t know why I have it, but if it serves some purpose for you now, thank you for it.” I’d say that prayer hundreds of times a day.

I guess I now know the purpose. Gratitude is an antidote to pain. Whoa! I wouldn’t have figured that one out on my own.

I hold hope in the palm of my hand and I freely offer it to you by sharing my experience, journey and this story.

Now, every time I run I pray, “Thank you God for giving me a strong, healthy pain free body and the ability to run.” I say it over and over while I run. I am strong. I am healthy. I am a runner. I’ve been relatively pain free since May 2005.

Maybe it was the laughter that healed the pain. Maybe it was the prayers. But, I do know it had something to with some outstanding, committed and knowledgeable people on my healthcare team.

From Chapter 3- Mexico—Salvatore

2009-09-11T06:09:00.011-06:00

Azucar was tucked into a cul-de-sac off the main avenue on the north end of Cancun. Camryn and Cynthia discovered it several vacations ago. The lighting along the bar invited a fantasy of Havana nights of the 1940s. Her parents would have loved this place. She wasn’t aware if they’d ever been here. They too, had come to Cancun frequently. Elizabeth and Ken were great dancers. Every decade, on their wedding anniversary they’d throw a huge party and on their last one, their fortieth it was no different. Camryn loved dancing with her father, but it wasn’t quite the practiced steps that Elizabeth and he shared.

The matre’d, Enrique seated Camryn and asked if he could join her for a drink. He called the waiter over, bought her a drink and they talked briefly before he had to return to work.

Loneliness settled in as she watched the club fill up with couples and groups of people, laughing and talking as they pasted her unnoticed. Here she was alone, again. It had been years since romance put in an appearance —there wasn’t time in her life or a place in her heart for it. She finished her drink and thought maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to have come here by herself. She stood, smoothed the wrinkles on the front of her white gauze summer dress that contrasted nicely with her gently tanned skin from earlier in the day, tucked her clutch purse under her arm and headed toward to door.

Then, she looked up. Her eyes met his. His long dark wavy hair was pulled back into a ponytail. He was dressed in dark slacks, a white shirt, no tie with his light tan jacket slung over his shoulder. They were unable or unwilling to shift their gaze. He slowly walked over to her and took her hand in his.

“Buenos noches, senorita,” he spoke softly as he leaned over to kiss her hand.

“Buenos noches, senor,” she said as she let him.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said in English with an accent Camryn couldn’t quite place. He wasn’t Mexican. “My name in Salvatore and a beautiful woman such as yourself should not be leaving so early. The night is young.”

“Oh, boy, what a line,” she thought, yet, she had to check to be sure her mouth wasn’t gaping open. It was as if he had just walked off the cover of a magazine. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

“Please sit down. Will you join me?” She gestured. She realized she was going to stay for awhile.

Salvatore ordered drinks. Camryn had another Perrier. The conversation flowed freely. He was Italian and was on vacation for two weeks with his business partner and childhood friend Benito, who would meet him there shortly. They were staying at the Fiesta Americana just across from Azucar.

A collective rhythm pulsated in the air as song after song played on.

The next dance was a Rumba. Camryn let Salvatore lead her into the sensual moves that hinted at the possibilities of the night.

The band took a break. Salvatore looked over and saw his friend. “Benito’s here. Let me introduce you.” He held her hand and led her to where Benito stood.

“Benito, allow me to introduce the most beautiful woman in the world,” Salvatore said dramatically.

They laughed.

Benito’s English wasn’t as easy to understand. He was polite and formal. Salvatore and he spoke to each other in Italian. After her second dance with Benito, Salvatore suggested they go to another club, Christine’s, a disco, was a short taxicab ride away.

In the cab, Salvatore put his arm around Camryn’s shoulder. She took his hand in hers. She knew where the evening was going. The rules of conduct in the sultry heat of this Mexican resort were left wide open. At Christine’s a photographer took their pictures. Salvatore bought two copies and gave her one.

The three of them found a table and Benito immediately approached a group of women and headed to the dance floor with one of them. The music and flashing lights filled her senses. It was too loud to carry on a conversation. Benito waved them onto the dance floor. They swooned and crooned along to Donna Summers’ I feel the love. Then another song erupted and suddenly the crowd separated and they could see a man going all out on the dance floor. They laughed and howled. Camryn glanced over at Salvatore as he laughed. She paused, studying his profile, then his hands--his fingernails hadn’t seen hard work. He looked over at her and leaned into her. She met him and for the first time that night they kissed. They pulled back. Their eyes met. Then they leaned toward each and their lips met again. He led her back to the table. The music washed away their voices.

“Maybe we should do go,” he offered. But, she couldn’t hear him and shrugged her shoulders. He nodded toward to the door. She didn’t hesitate. He caught Benito’s attention and waved good bye.

Morning was not too far distant as they reached her condo. She held her shoes in one hand and his in the other as they walked along the beach, enjoying the coolness that settled on the night.

“It’s late,” said Camryn.

“You mean it’s early,” corrected Salvatore.

Camryn smiled. “Let’s go upstairs." He didn’t hesitate.

Salvatore put out the do-not-disturb sign. They stood just inside the doorway. He kissed her. He picked her up in his arms and carried her up the short flight of stairs to the bedroom. He laid her on the bed, their lips never separating. She could feel the weight of him on her. She slipped her hands under his shirt and felt the muscles of his back straining. In one fluid motion, he rolled over and pulled her on top of him and his practiced fingers unzipped the back of her dress.

“Oh my God,” she thought. “I’m in a super-market romance novel.”

“Yes,” she uttered, her voice just above a whisper.

Ghosts in the Darkness

2009-09-05T08:24:00.015-06:00

Yesterday afternoon, I was sitting in Bookend Cafe, the coffee shop attached to the Boulder Bookstore—being one of the throngs of erudite Boulderites. It’s pretty white here in Boulder. I don’t mean that in a negative way; it’s just an observation. Led Zeppelin’s Going to California; “Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams, telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems…” was playing over head.

Kevin had some business in downtown, so, I decided to go along. After a late breakfast at Turley’s he dropped me off on Pearl Street. I wanted to finish some writing I had begun earlier.

As I sometimes do, I begin by editing some of the book’s first draft. December 11, 2000 was the date on the chapters I was reading yesterday. The book holds my memories, my history (for the most part) of what my life was like back in 1998 through 2000. I had a scheduled trip to Cancun, Mexico with my sister the weekend after the accident. I shouldn’t have gone. I wasn’t well, but I didn’t know it yet. I remember nothing of that weekend except what I wrote as part of the story. I haven’t talked to my sister about that weekend. I think I’ll give her a call.

Here come the tears again. I fight them back. I can’t cry in public.

I haven’t always been such a crybaby. But, I am now. A friend of mind told me that I also laugh more heartily than before, too. The brain injury changed me. I don’t have the same filters I used to. I guess it’s good. I’ve come to accept who I am. And really, when you meet me, you’d never know that I’m different. But, I am.

One of the first classes I took as a part of my PhD was a philosophy of science course. Margaret LeCompte, PhD was the professor. She changed me. I am one of the many thousands of students she has had in her career, and I’m sure she’d say “Kathe Perez who” if I ever emailed her to say “hi.” However, a part of how I see world was developed in that class. She had a tremendous impact on me. The major assignment for the course, which we had the semester to complete, was to write what she called a “Stand Point” paper. We were to search back through our lives our personal histories—our families, education, where we grew up, our culture, our mental, physical and emotional experiences, what we read, and our political perspectives--and write who we are. She said that it is from our histories that we come to the point upon which we stand today, and that would determine the type of science to which we would be drawn. I anguished over the paper. I went to see her a couple of times. And yes, she did mean everything. “You mean my father’s alcoholism?” “Yes,” was her reply. “You mean the poor little Mexican girl who grew up in fancy white Connecticut?” “Yes,” was her reply. “But, but, but,” I protested. “Just write it,” she insisted. So I did.

About a week ago I was going through a small blue notebook I apparently used to keep track of my life. The first entry in that notebook was November 3, 1998. The writing is nearly illegible. I sentences are incomplete. I must have been trying to help myself remember some things that were supposed to get done. I wonder if they ever did.

In another blue notebook (I guess blue was my color) from some years later, I saw that I attended a talk or book signing by Jimmy Santiago Baca in 2001. I have absolutely no idea how I got interested in his work (Chicano jailhouse poetry), but I guess I did. Then, the next day, I heard he was going to be speaking in Boulder in a couple of weeks. So, I did a Google search and came up with nothing. I went to his website, nothing. I emailed him and asked him about it and he emailed me back to say, that yes he was speaking in Boulder on September 22, 2009, but he didn’t say where and I still can’t find it and I’m too embarrassed to email him back.

Yesterday when Kevin finished his business and came to retrieve me from where I sat at a tiny round table barely big enough for my laptop, we decided to look around the Boulder Bookstore for a bit. Now, when you love to read (I need to retire just to read all the books on my list) you simply cannot go into a bookstore and come out empty handed. I had intended to only get To Kill a Mockingbird. On the way home from work the day before, I heard an interview on the radio with Denver’s Mayor Hickenlooper about his project One Book-One Denver and I wanted to get a copy.

Thirty-seven dollars and eighty-five cents later, I walked out with four books and a big smile.

I began reading Jimmy’s book, A Place to Stand (I think I may have read it, the cover looks familiar) and know why I was attracted his story--chronic shame. He’s a little boy in New Mexico and the adults in his life that were supposed to love and care for him failed him. My father was from New Mexico. His dark skin and dirt floor shack that was his boyhood home raked at his soul, but instead of finding the words to tell his story, he found the bottle.

Somehow I blamed myself for the accident. I saw that the car coming up behind us was going too fast. Why didn’t I try some strategic maneuver like in the movies to avoid the collision? Then bang! Smash! Damaged!

The ghosts from that dark, dark time in my life are here again, not to bring me over to the other side, but to take me further into the light. “I want you to be an example of hope in the world,” said the voice in my head.

“Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams, telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems.”

My Dark Mood

2009-09-03T07:56:00.011-06:00

My dark mood came knocking Tuesday night. I had a feeling it was she. I haven’t seen her in awhile. I got up, went to the door, saw who it was, thought better of it, but I let her in anyway. We’ve known each other for quite some time.

I’m lying very still as dawn stretches into my room, breathing softly so she doesn’t know I’m awake. My thoughts carry me to a peaceful place--sitting in my comfortable chair, in my comfortable living room with the tapping sounds of my pretty red nails on the keyboard of my lap-top (I love that). Then my dark mood senses I’m awake and slaps me. Hard. Damn her! She’s coercing me to spend another day with her. Boy, she’s convincing.

My dark mood and depression are cousins. She introduced me to depression back in 1999. Depression--now that’s a bitch that’s packing some power! Depression oozed into the hearts of beautiful creative souls like Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton and quietly had her way with them.

As I’ve mentioned, I’m reading (actually re-reading) Anne Lamott’s, Bird by Bird, and she mentioned there was a time when suicide came to some of her father’s writing friends. Last night, Anne suggested that I write about what I know, about my experiences, that I use my history and observations of the world around me, to be the anchor of my stories. She writes about alcoholism, neurosis, and depression. What is this with writers?

You’d think that my dark mood would love that I’m writing. But, she’s secretive. She loves secrets. She whispers in my ear. She turns my fears into truths. She’s good at that!

So, I haven’t written/edited much more on chapter three. We left off with Camryn taking a cab ride into the night club district of Cancun, Mexico. We’ll pick up from there soon.

My dark mood needs to leave now. It's sunny. It’s 63 degrees. It’s 7:48 am. Another amazing Colorado morning. The neighborhood kids are scurrying along the bike path to the elementary school. My writing time is coming to a close for today. I’m going to go for a run. My dark mood hates it when I run.

I feel better. I’m going to ask her to leave.

Joy and Motivation

2009-09-01T07:15:00.011-06:00

I’m writing everyday and it’s bringing me joy! Joy: “the emotion evoked by well-being, success, or good fortune or by the prospect of possessing what one desires.” (Merriam-Webster Online). I’m in a massive edit of the book. Finally! It brings me joy.

When my kids were young, almost every morning of their lives, I’d ask them about their dreams. In my dream last night, I was in a class my friend Melodie Matice was teaching. The class was on spirituality and how to tap into your intuition. It was on a beach and we, the audience sat facing the water. It was warm, comfortable, just after sunrise. The sun was coming up behind us. I’ve been to this location before in my dreams. It’s along a lagoon and the water is always calm. The beach was rocky. Many of my friends were also in the class and during the break my friend Rosia came over to me and we were talking about how I might go about publishing the book. We were talking about the title and whether to use the current title or something else. Then another friend drew an amazing picture. The drawing, in colored pencil, a scene from that beach, had hidden faces in the rocks. We all loved it and then someone mentioned it would make a great cover for the book.

Writing brings me joy. Reading brings me joy. Reading about writing brings me a lot of joy. Sunday, I picked up a book I bought in 1999 (I keep the receipts in the books I buy) by Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: some instructions on writing and life. I now want to read everything she ever wrote. I want to meet her. Ok, Supreme-Being-of-my-understanding, you heard it. I want to meet Anne Lamott. (I’ll let you all know when I do).

Now, there are some special gifts you get when you have (or have had, in my case) a brain injury. You can re-read books (I apparently read quite thoroughly, Bird by Bird as evidenced by the crinkly pages). You can buy your own Christmas gifts, wrap them, put them under the Christmas tree and be surprised by them on Christmas morning (this actually happened and I tell the story in more detail in the book).

I put away all my writings and books in two boxes that sat in the basement for years. I tried revisiting the book a couple of times. But they were false starts and nothing came of it. Yes, the book was crap and it needed so much work, that I doubted that I’d ever find the motivation to complete it. Motivation: it comes from the root word motive—“something (as a need or desire) that causes a person to act.”

What is my motive? I have a story to tell. An experience to share. We all do! And, we all love stories. We never tire of stories.

I’m writing and editing (writing really is more about editing) everyday. And I love Camryn. Is that narcissistic? Because, come on, she’s me, right? She’s divorced; I was divorced. She’s a single mom; I was a single mom. She’s working on a Ph.D.; I was working on a Ph.D. She loves going Mexico; I loved going to Mexico (although I haven’t been there since the accident). Camryn had a car accident and a brain injury; I had a car accident and a brain injury. But, an interesting thing happened. Camryn turns out to not be me. On the outside, some of the circumstances of the life of that character were some (not all) of my own. Then, she began to evolve into her own personality. She developed her own processes for working through the problems she faced. I was surprised and intrigued by that, but as it turns out that’s a common occurrence. Since, I’d never done any creative writing, I didn’t know this. So, back then (from October 1998 to January 2001) and now, I let Camryn tell her story.

I am motivated to do the thing that brings me joy: to write.

What brings you joy? What’s your story? I’d love to know.

From Chapter 3 -- Mexico, January 1997

2009-08-29T07:55:00.009-06:00

No one greeted her on Tuesday afternoon as she hurried into the humble office that the physical therapist shared with her new physician, Dr. Siemens. An older couple, the woman with her cane, the man with his magazine sat near the door at the other end of the room. They didn’t bother to look up when she sat down in one of the worn teal and pink cushioned chairs that lined the walls.

The faint smell of gasoline lingered on her hands. She spilled it all over herself as she topped off the tank on the rental car and had to return home and change, but there was no time for a shower.

“How late am I?” she thought. “Did I miss my appointment?” She looked down at her watch, but it wasn’t there. She considered picking up a magazine, but her thoughts, like a feather in the wind, blew gently away.

********************************************

The weekend in Mexico last year was thrown together quickly. Nearly every day, Camryn and her sister Cynthia spoke on the phone. As she was driving to work that Monday morning she saw an advertisement on the side of a bus for a low cost weekend in Cancun. Many long lazy weekends and vacations with the kids with Cynthia and her two girls were spent at Bill Johnson’s condo, a lifelong friend of their father’s. Many years ago, when Bill’s wife, Doris slipped away with half of everything while he was busy drinking and carousing, Bill bought the condo and fled to it rather than face the family he shattered in Connecticut. Bill never charged any of them for use of the place. All he asked was that they be very friendly with the staff and tip them generously.

“Hey, doll face, what’s up?” asked Cynthia.

“Let’s go to Mexico at the end of the month. You’ve been working like a dog. And I could certainly use some time away.” Camryn turned off Colorado Boulevard toward the Cherry Creek neighborhood of Denver.

“Ok, let me check on a few things and get back to you. By the way, how did the work on your dissertation go this weekend?”

“It’s hell. I can’t believe how much still needs to be done. My house has never been cleaner.” They laughed. Both Camryn and Cynthia took after their mother in this way.

They said their good-byes as Camryn drove into the parking lot of her office.

As it turned out, Cynthia couldn’t get away. Camryn would be going to Mexico alone for the weekend. Cancun in January alone--she decided she’d bring her lap-top and work on her dissertation.

A subzero cold spell hit the Front Range of Colorado that January. It was six below at the airport when she walked from the short-term parking garage at Denver International Airport to the terminal. She took satisfaction in the thought that that afternoon she’d be walking off a plane in 80 degree weather.

Camryn was in her swim suit and on the beach by two o’clock that afternoon. The wait-staff greeted her warmly as she walked to the beach. They asked about Cynthia and the children. Richard was there, too. He was an American who moved to Cancun several years ago and involved himself in the hotel industry. He waved and approached Camryn as she grabbed a chaise lounge. Richard had been an investment attorney and “gave up the life” as he put it and moved to Mexico.

“Bienvenido, mi amiga, como ‘stas?” asked Richard.

“Gracious. Estoy bien, y tu?” replied Camryn happy to practice her Spanish.

“It’s one beautiful day after another. When are you going to pack up and move down here yourself?” Richard knew of Camryn’s desire to live in Mexico or some tropical Spanish speaking country one day. They sat together and caught up on their lives since last summer when everyone was there together.

Later that afternoon, after her obligatory Mexican siesta, Camryn sat on the balcony which faced the beach and the Gulf of Mexico. The sun was setting and the waves were getting stronger. A group of about twenty shirtless men wearing the same navy shorts ran along the water.

Camryn showered and dressed for dinner and decided to take herself some place nice, one her favorite places. La Dolce Vita was considered one of the best restaurants in Cancun. It overlooked the Lagoon. That Thursday night, she arrived around nine, after dark. From her table, she could see the twinkling of the lights from the boats as they traveled through the Lagoon. She enjoyed being alone with her thoughts. Antoine, the matre‘d, whom she’d known for a few years, was a fair complexioned man with blue eyes. He sat with her for dessert and coffee.

Antoine escorted Camryn out of the restaurant, called her a cab and instructed the driver to take her to her condominium. She didn’t feel like going back there yet, so she asked the driver to take her to the night club district.

I'm Stuck

2009-08-28T07:09:00.011-06:00

Nothing. I’ve got nothing. I’m on my third cup of coffee and third gluten free cranberry flax bite. It takes longer to say it than to eat one of them they’re so small.

I’m editing an article for a website. I just added my nephew who lives in the Philippines as a Facebook friend. I’m working on Chapter 3. I don’t like it. I’ve been up since 4:00, well 3:52 if you must know.

I’ve had nothing before. This was a familiar state in the years after the accident. Years mind you. Not days, not weeks, but years. How does one endure the strung together moments that fall together in a rubble that’s supposed to be a life?

My speech therapist, Mary Ann Keatley said, “one day you’ll reflect back on this and realize how injured you really were. You’ll get better.” She gave me inspirational tapes to listen to (reading was difficult). She gave me hope that I didn’t have and desperately needed. She understood. The days I had difficulty speaking were particularly bad--the stammering, stuttering was very embarrassing. I’m a speech therapist for God’s sake! And a damn good public speaker. But not in those years.

I lost my memories. Who are we but the bundle of experiences which fit together and make up who we are? Who are we without our memories? Meghann began high school during that time. I don’t remember her first day of school. There were birthdays and Christmases and trips. I don’t remember. There were people I met and friends I made that I don’t remember.

From the Monday after the accident until sometime later, I guess until the money ran out, I had therapies several times a week. There was physical therapy, massage therapy, speech therapy, and Rolfing. After the neuropsychological testing the speech therapy stepped up in frequency. A year later when things got worse (if you can imagine that), a psychotherapist and psychiatrist were added to the roster. Then there were pain management people and procedures.

It all helped. They were all so great! I felt listened to. I felt understood. I felt safe in their collective experiences. I trusted them and they didn’t let me down.

I’m not okay, and you’re probably not either.

2009-08-27T06:06:00.009-06:00

I’m sitting at a table on the side walk outside of Vic’s on Main Street in Louisville Colorado, the best small town in America, sipping a 16 oz iced half-soy, half-rice milk latte--way too many syllables for one drink. But, at least I don’t have to use the syntax required at Starbucks. Plus, Jenny knows me by my drink. I love that! She sees me coming and simply asks, “Kathe, hot or cold today?”

Jenny wears skirts, sometimes pleated, with white ankle socks, bare legs and loafers. In the dark of winter with raging snow and temperatures in the teens, she wears an outfit like this. I asked her once, “Aren’t you cold.” A simple, “no” was the reply. No explanation. No excuses.

As I was preparing the entry for yesterday’s blog post, it brought me back (again) to the way things were. I don’t remember much those first few months. As best as I can figure, I lost about four years of memories. There are a few recollections, but that’s mostly because I had a notebook and wrote things down a lot. Also, I was beginning my therapies and everyone asked the same questions, so, I told the story many times.

The recollections of those years are more like remembering the details of a movie, than the experience of a life. There is no emotional memory, because, you see I wasn’t really there. I was somewhere else. I was not ok.

My before-the-accident-self was going through the motions of my daily life. She’s good! We now call her ‘the Betty.’ She’s amazing really. She can do almost anything. She’s sharp and quick and focused. She’s strong and confident. She can work on a Ph.D. and start a business and run a household and raise two kids on her own and faux finish the dining room walls while making Halloween costumes. But, the enormity of the situation overwhelmed even ‘the Betty.’ She went missing.

I was not ok. Some well-meaning friends offered kind suggestions, but they didn’t know what I was going through. They didn’t know what is was like to drive to work on a route I’d traveled for years, only to get lost and arrive late (again). They didn’t know that I couldn’t check the change I got back at the store, because I was like a five year old and couldn’t make sense of the money. They didn’t know I couldn’t understand what they were saying if they spoke too fast or that at a restaurant (the few times I went) I’d order what they did because I couldn’t read the menu. They didn’t know the pain in my body and the headaches and the noise and the light and the rapid pace of it all.

When did it get so bright and so loud and so fast! I was on a slow soft train. Everyone else was on the high-speed express.

I was not ok! Don’t tell me it’ll be okay, because you don’t know! You really don’t!

From Chapter 2 - But Mommy, you don't seem all right.

2009-08-26T07:17:00.013-06:00

Sunday was typically the day Camryn’s mother called. Elizabeth had been flying around the globe and blew in and out of the lives of her children and grandchildren erratically since Camryn’s father died five years ago. She became close to a group of women who had also lost their husbands. They called themselves the “Merry Widows,” a not so original and a somewhat distasteful name for the band of women in their sixties with too much time and money. Elizabeth had been accustomed to calling her family on the weekends she was between trips and tee-times. She called twice yesterday. When Camryn didn’t call back, she called early Monday morning.

David answered the phone.

“David, what are you doing there? What happened? What’s the matter?” The nearly inaudible sigh which slipped between David’s lips told the story of both the love and disdain he felt for Elizabeth. You always knew where you stood with her. She had blamed David for the divorce—she hadn’t kept that to herself. Yet, Elizabeth’s direct way of getting to the point was a refreshing contrast to the vagueness of his own mother’s circuitous route to the truth. Neither he nor his brothers ever got good at reading her thoughts or anticipating her needs.

“Elizabeth,” David shot back, “Camryn and Zoe were in a car accident Saturday.”

“Oh, God. I knew something was wrong. I just knew it. When Camryn didn’t return my calls yesterday, I just knew something had happened,” she shouted into the phone.

David interrupted."Zoe’s fine. Camryn got a bit banged up. They kept her in the hospital overnight on Saturday,”

“Hospital?” Elizabeth always liked David too, but he never got to the point unless she prodded and probed. “Where’s she now?”

“Upstairs sleeping. I haven’t gotten her up yet. She and Zoe have doctor appointments today.”

“A doctor’s appointment? You said Zoe was all right.”

“She is. It’s just a precaution. I’m keeping both kids home from camp today. And actually, we were just heading out to get the rental car for Camryn.”

“Rental Car?!”

“Camryn’s car was badly damaged. It was totaled.”

"Let me talk to Zoe,” Elizabeth barked.

“Hang on,” the muscles along David’s jaw line began their familiar dance.

The same line of questioning continued with Zoe. “Sweetheart, do you want me to come out there and be with you and your sister and your mother for a few of days?”

“I don’t know. You should probably wait and talk to Mom.”

“I love you, darling. I’ll keep you all in my prayers. Where’s Nikki?” Elizabeth heard Zoe yelling for Nikki to come to the phone.

“Nikki, honey, how are you? How’s your mother?”

“She’s sleeping. She seems all right I guess.” Elizabeth fired off the same set questions she had to David and Zoe, but Nikki was in the middle of searching for her sneakers, and she was distracted and handed the phone back to her dad. David was annoyed with her for not being ready yet. They were running late. David got back on the phone to assure Elizabeth that he’d have Camryn call her when they got back from the doctor.

The day was long. When they walked in the door, Zoe and Nikki offered to make dinner. Camryn was a virtual Julia Child in the kitchen and she was proud of her children’s interest and skill in the kitchen at their ages—fourteen and ten.

Camryn grabbed an ice pack and lay on the floor in the living room. It felt good to lie down flat on her back.

“Mom, do you want a salad with the spaghetti? We’re sautéing vegetables and serving them over spaghetti or would you like linguini?”

“I’m going to heat up the Brie and serve it with the rest of the baguette from the other day with that fig spread you like so much,” offered Nikki.

“Ok, girls, whatever you both want to do. It all sounds great. I’m starved.”

“Mommy, you’re talking funny.” Zoe noticed the halting stammer in Camryn’s speech.

“That's Ok Mom, I love you,” said Zoe as she walked over to her where her mother lay.

Zoe’s 'I love you' phrase had been a part of their family history since Zoe was in the second grade. They moved to Colorado from Philadelphia and it was a rough adjustment for Zoe. 'I love you' had become her secret way of saying she was afraid.

“Sweet pea, I’m all right.” Camryn sat up to hug Zoe.

“But, Mommy, you don’t seem all right.” She didn’t leave her mother’s side for the rest of the night.

Camryn didn't phone her mother back.

Welcome back old friend.

2009-08-25T07:07:00.022-06:00

I began writing during my usual time. I'm trying to set aside my writing time each day from 5:00 - 7:00 am, when Katie from Korea IM'd me. She and I have been penpals (I guess that word isn't really used anymore) for awhile. She found me through one of my websites. She sees me get online and then I hear a little bloop and see her first note. She's ending her day as I'm beginning mine. We chat about a variety of subjects. She's due back in the States soon, I hope one day we can meet.

So, my blog writing got off to a slow start today (not your fault Katie, I enjoy our chats). Now, Kevin's got Mozart's Piano Concerto number 26 playing upstairs (I wouldn't have known this, I had to look inside the CD jacket). It's lovely--the sweet sounds of the piano.

Music. There were years and years of no music, no sounds in the house. I preferred the quiet. I needed the quiet. Having music back in my life has been the return of an old friend I didn't realized I missed.

When my neurologist (Robert Scaer) mentioned the thing about writing my experience, I think he may have been referring to journaling. Which I tried. But, I'm not much of a journal-type writer.

"August 13, 1998, Dear Diary, Today my neurologist suggested that I write." No, that's not me.

But then, months later, on October 23, 1998, that strange thing happened (see blog post from August 18, 2009). I can't explain it. I'm not an expert in traumatic brain injuries, but my speech therapist, Mary Ann Keatley (yes, that's funny, a speech therapist going to a speech therapist for help) said that the frontal lobes are often damaged in patients with TBIs. The frontal lobes of our brains provide the executive functions. They mostly tell us no.

So, without the no I was on full throttle of a two year period of creative flow that I'd never experienced. Creative writing was something I'd never really done. There were papers, articles and textbook chapters for my career, my profession as a speech pathologist, but never the creative style of writing.

It took the longest time for my fingers to type out the words that my mind wanted to express. It was a type of apraxia of speech, I guess, where the signals of brain don't move the parts of the body. I knew what I wanted to say. I knew what I wanted to write, but my mouth, my fingers, my hands wouldn't cooperate. It was SO frustrating. There were times when I'd be very, very quiet, because the effort it took to speak was too great. My normally extroverted personality switched in an instant.

At the end of the two years I put the book aside. It was crap. A self-absorbed cathartic rant that I was sure no one would be interested in. But, it served it's purpose. I could type again. I could spell again. I could express myself again. I was recovering. Dr. Scaer was right. But, it would be another two or more years before I could actually say and agree to the words my daughter Meghann spoke, "Remember, Mommy, you had a brain injury." Finally, using the past tense! It was lovely.

Welcome back old friend. I missed my brain while it was gone.

From Chapter 2 -- A River of Words

2009-08-24T06:41:00.008-06:00

Zoe had Camryn by the shoulders. “Mom! Wake up! Wake up! Mommy!”

She was shaking her hard. Zoe’s eyes searched frantically outside the car. “Oh God! Oh, my God. Somebody help us!” Zoe screamed. Her face was red and puffy. Her tears dappled the front of her tee-shirt.

Zoe jumped out of the passenger side of the car. A white car had pulled in front. A man walked over to Zoe. “I saw the whole thing,” he shouted. “I’ve called 911.”

“Are you all right?” the man said.

“Yes, yes, I think I’m fine. I was sleeping--”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Camryn opened her eyes. A blinding headache clouded her vision. There were two figures. They were talking. “Daddy is that you? What are you doing out there talking to Zoe?” she thought.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“--when we got hit.”

“Let’s check on your mother.” The man from the white car walked quickly over to the driver’s side. Zoe rushed over to the passenger side.

“Mom! You’re awake! Are you all right?”

The man instructed Camryn to sit still, to not get up.

A river of words rushed by. She tried to grasp a few of them, but they moved on so quickly. The paramedics arrived. They fired questions at her that she couldn’t answer. There was a whirlwind of activity. She wanted to return to the nothingness.

Some time elapsed. Some decisions were made. She was in an ambulance. Zoe was next to her.

Then she was at a hospital. David was there. “How’d you get here? How long have I been here?” she thought she’d spoken, but no one answered her.

Then Zoe was gone. David was gone, too.

There were X-rays and questions and doctors. She’d begin to speak, but they didn’t wait for her answers.

Trying to piece together the events which swirled around was impossible.

Her eyes closed. She was drifting back to that place, the empty place where it was still and unhurried. She thought she remembered talking to her father, but Ken had died some years ago.

Finally, sleep came, but it was restless. She woke herself up each time she moved.

Almost a Square on a Quilt

2009-08-22T06:47:00.008-06:00

Today is my birthday. I'm 54. There was a time I would not have mentioned my age. Our society does not value aging women.

My long graying hair, that I color sometimes, the wrinkles around my eyes and mouth are acceptable, they're just fine. I'm not dead. When you're not dead, you age. I'm preferring gray hair and wrinkles to dead.

In March 2005, I was at a Native American conference in Denver put on by White Bison (check them out www.whitebison.org). I was sitting with Sam English talking about life and health and wellness and creativity, when I looked across the hall and saw a brilliant quilt hanging on a frame. I asked him about it. Each square on the quilt was made by someone to honor their deceased relative.

I was almost a square on a quilt. Had the circumstances at the time (in 1999) taken me one more mile farther down the road I had been on since the accident, I would have been a square on a quilt.

We all brush up against death multiple times in our lives. In 1999, I nearly stepped off the bridge to the other side. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. I'll let the story unfold for you.

My Tender Sleep

2009-08-21T06:25:00.010-06:00

There was a skunk nearby last night. The smell woke me from my tender sleep. Sleep and I have had a complicated relationship over the years. We've loved each other, we've been in conflict, we've found peace together at times.

As I lie quietly, the rhythmic sounds of my partner's breathing try to lull me back to sleep, but the strong skunk-smell pulls at my consciousness and keeps me awake.

And the thoughts begin to flood in. So, I get up, make the coffee (I'm out of half n' half, grrr) and here I am, comfortably seated in my favorite chair, lap-top on my lap. Writing. Happy. Sun rising.

Yesterday, I posted the last few paragraphs from chapter one. For so many years I couldn't let go of the idea of, "why'd this happen to me?" My life was good. The day was perfect. Then, suddenly, without warning, it was all different.

"The dead don't know they're dead" (at first)--a line (roughly paraphrased) from the movie the "Sixth Sense." I know why! Because for some deaths, it happens too suddenly. There you are, kissing your loved one good-bye as you head off to work or go to bed that night or take that flight, and you never return. You never see them again. Or maybe more correctly, they never see you again.

It was like that for me. As soon as I came to, there was conflict between what my recent former self knew to do in an accident and what my now brand-spanking new brain injured self was trying to do. There was too much commotion. Too many people. Too many questions. I couldn't piece it all together.

Then sleep came. We became best friends for awhile. I slept and slept and slept. And when I was technically awake, I slept.

Having a brain injury is like that foggy feeling you get when you've been in a deep sleep and are suddenly awakened and you can't quite get oriented to the place, day or time.

I was in that foggy place for so long. The brain-injured don't know their brain has been injured (at first).

I became slow and stupid. It became my new normal.

From Chapter 1

2009-08-20T07:07:00.014-06:00

After breakfast, Camryn and Zoe headed to I-70 which would take them to Silverthorne--a mountain town that was littered with outlet shops. There was a whole new season to fill with clothes, shoes, and accessories. At fourteen, Zoe was already taller than Camryn. She was shy about her body--already overly critical of the form which she saw in the mirror. The magazines she read were filling her with unrealistic images of what a woman’s body should look like.

“Mom, what do you think about this top?”

“I love it. The color really brings out your eyes. It’s funny how that is.” The sky-blue tank-top pulled the blueness of Zoe’s eyes into sharp focus.

“Zoe, what do you think of these shorts?” Camryn asked as she stepped through the curtain into Zoe’s changing stall. “I can’t seem to hang onto shorts from year to year. Whatever happened to the khaki shorts I had last summer? Did you take them?”

“Mom, can I get two tops. Look at this one.”

“But your bras straps show through.”

“Everybody wears tank-tops like this. Do you think this makes me look fat? Can I buy a couple of new bras? I hate the way my stomach looks in this top.”

They walked from shop to shop, tried things on, laughed and joked. It was a luscious feeling of freedom. There was nowhere to be, no time schedule to keep. That carefree day would become the symbol of all she had lost.

The shadows were growing long when they headed home from the outlet center. Their bellies still full after a late lunch. Zoe napped as Camryn drove home.

As they reached the road which took them into Boulder from the Interstate, the purple sky held the silhouette of the mountains in a gentle embrace. She was at peace. Glancing over at her sleeping daughter a deep feeling of love seeped into every pore.

When Camryn was pregnant with Zoe she had just started graduate school--it was a Master’s degree. It was a hot dry summer that year and toward the end of her pregnancy she waddled and lumbered her way through the tiny apartment unable to find comfort from the heat or her body. Being pregnant meant not dieting. Camryn always paid attention to everything she ate. Her mother etched into her consciousness the need to stay thin and fit and beautiful. But pregnancy changed that for awhile. Camryn ate everything. She gained 45 pounds. But still, she loved being pregnant. She read stories to her unborn child and rubbed her big belly and talked sweetly about what life was like outside the womb. As her due date approached, Camryn ached to hold the child inside of her. The need to hold the person who was sharing her body, her life was powerful. In the early morning hours the day Zoe was born, the sounds of her cries, her wet dark hair pasted to her scalp, the puffiness of her newborn face were heaven. The bluish tips of her tiny little fingers--her finger nails were long, they actually grew while she was inside--filled Camryn with a love she had never experienced. She would give her life for this child. The image of the lioness instinctively caring for her cubs was accurate of the protectiveness she felt for her newborn daughter.

All was right with her world that June evening as they headed home. Then, in one brief second in time, one small choice made by another driver, one poor decision, it all changed.

In a fleeting, lucid moment, Camryn realized the car in her rearview mirror would not stop in time. It was traveling too fast.

Then there was darkness. Nothingness. The void that befalls those unconscious. There were no images, no lights, no voices, just emptiness--time that wasn’t filled. She came out of the darkness and found she was in the car some distance from where she last remembered it to be. She had been slowing for a red light and was almost completely stopped when her car was hit from behind.

Zoe was crying, “Are you all right? Mom, wake up. Get up. Mommy!!”

It started out like any day

2009-08-19T07:39:00.001-06:00

I woke up late this morning, 7:07 am, that's practically the middle of the day for me. For many, many years I've been a light sleeper and an early morning riser.

I love the quiet sounds of my home and neighborhood as they wake up. The steamy burble of the coffee maker and the aroma that fills the house comfort me. The neighbor's kid across the street has a summer job and I usually hear him drive away at 6:00 am. For years, a woman I've never met runs along the bike path also around 6:00. I see her from my kitchen window. I missed them both this morning.

All is as it ought to be. I am well. I am happy. I am.

Back in 1998, on June 13th, it was a Saturday, I take my cup of coffee to the white sofa in in the living room, I still have that old thing. I had been actively running for a couple of years in anticipation of my fortieth birthday. I wanted to feel and be fit and strong. And I was. I finished my first (and what has so far turned out to be my only) half-marathon the previous weekend. I loved reading "Runner's World" magazine and may have been reading that or a novel or non-fiction. I usually have several books going on at the same time.

All was as it ought to have been. I was well. I was happy. I was me.

That morning, I had no idea that my life was about to take a turn that would chart a course that would change me forever. One small choice made by someone else changed everything.

So, the journey begins... August 18, 2009

2009-08-18T06:19:00.001-06:00

It's been eleven years, two months and five days. At what point is it time to talk about it? At what point does the story need to be told?

Do I want to share my tale with you so, I get a "oh, honey, that must have been so hard for you." Well, at one point that was most certainly true.

But, it's been seven or eight years since the book was completed (well, nearly completed, it needed a lot of work, and really, still does).

The book began from an off-handed comment by my neurologist. He said that he noticed over the years that his patients who wrote about their experiences seemed to recover the best.

I knew (don't ask how I knew, it's just one of those things you know), that I would be one of those patients.

Then some time later, it could have been a week, it could have been months (I had a brain injury and much of that time is a blur) I had a dream. Well, a dream of sorts.

I woke up on Friday October 23, 1998 with the book title, the chapter outlines, the character names and a voice in my head that said, "write the book."

At that time, I could barely type or spell or speak in complete sentences... still after these years, the tears come when I remember.