My daughter is the only one who knows what happened. Sure, there were bystanders—the PG&E technician inspecting a power line and a passing motorist who called out, “Are you all right?” as soon as my chin hit the asphalt and the headphones I was wearing flew off my head and landed thirty feet away along with the breakfast I was carrying. But the only person who knows what went on before, during, and after is my twenty-five-year-old daughter.
My daughter and I are sitting at the dining room table in the home I share with my husband. She is gazing intently at my face. I am telling her about the night before when I went to The Union Hotel with my husband to meet his guy friends, Mikey and Eric, for drinks. Two hours and several drinks later, my husband slammed his napkin on the table and shouted, “Goddamn it!” The 49ers lost the last game of the year, and he wanted to leave immediately. He tossed what he had left in his wallet onto the table and shoved the bill at me. “Cover the rest, but don’t put it on a card.” He stormed out to use the restroom. My body tensed as I opened my purse and rifled through the change I had. I had only been working part-time teaching novel writing, and the craft book I had written to supplement my income would not be released until next year. My eyes watered and my hands shook as I counted out what I had left. “Is it enough?” I asked Mikey. My husband likes to leave a big tip. Mikey shuffled the bills in his broad hands. “Don’t worry. You’ve got it, sweetheart.” My husband returned before the server, and he tallied the money I had left. “Can’t you do math? This isn’t thirty percent.” His face blanched white. “Hey, hey, hey, big boy,” Mikey said, moving his hands up and down. “Be happy with what you have—a beautiful wife who loves you.” My husband huffed and uncurled his fists. “You’re right.” He slapped Mikey on the back and motioned for me to follow him. “Let’s go.” Mikey pulled me into a hug. “I love you, sweetheart.” “I love you, too,” I said, squeezing him tight. Out of all my husband’s friends, Mikey is the one I like the most. He cares about me like a little sister. At home, my husband fell asleep, but I stayed awake, fuming. Anger radiated throughout my body like a furnace churning out heat. I didn’t want to be stuck with the bill tomorrow night when we went to Graton Casino to celebrate New Year’s Eve, so I planned to go for a run tomorrow morning and withdraw two hundred dollars in cash from the ATM. The next morning was cold and frosty and dense with fog. I bundled up for a five-mile run. I didn’t take my usual route to pick up the paper at my mother-in-law’s house. I ran in the opposite direction, toward Montgomery Village, an outdoor mall between the high school and St. Eugene’s Church. At the ATM, I shoved the cash into my zipped pocket and decided to take a shortcut to Whole Foods to grab breakfast too. My phone rang through my headphones. It was my friend, Daniel, who lives in North Carolina, calling to catch up. I didn’t want to talk to him while I was in the grocery store, so I let the call go to voicemail. Sometimes when I think about that morning, I wonder if I had just picked up the phone, talked to Daniel, and skipped the scones for breakfast, would I have avoided the accident? But I can’t dwell on what could have, would have, should have happened. I can only tell my daughter what actually occurred.
“I was at the intersection of Hoen and Yulupa when the light turned green for me to cross, but as soon as I stepped off the curb, a car sped by, almost nicking me. I was so angry—from last night and the speeding motorist—that I started thinking I wanted everyone to die in a zombie apocalypse.” My daughter gasps. “Oh, no, those aren’t good thoughts.” I nod, remembering. “At the next street crossing, I waited until the PG&E technician waved me ahead. I ran across, but tripped and fell on my jaw.” “Instant karma,” my daughter says. I tell her about the other times I’ve had bad thoughts during a run and how they always ended poorly, especially the time I was mulling over my frustration with being stuck caring for my dying girlfriend, Judy, while her husband went away for a golf tournament when I was stung in the head by a wasp. “Why don’t I learn?” My daughter rises and hugs me. “You need to forgive yourself and let go of those bad thoughts.” Closing my eyes, I breathe in her sweet scent. “I can’t think anymore without my head hurting.” “That’s the concussion,” she says. “It’ll get better.” I let her go. “I hope so,” I say.
Ten months after my concussion, I see my primary care physician for my annual wellness exam. “How are you doing?” he asks. “I’m fine,” I say. The barometric pressure has changed with the autumn rain, which increases my headaches, but not enough to keep me home. “I drove thirty minutes in morning traffic to make the appointment.” “That’s great,” he says. “The last time I saw you, your husband had driven you.” That’s right. He did. “You know, for a while I doubted you would get better,” he confesses. “It was taking so long to see any sign of improvement.” Thankfully, there has been lots of improvement since that initial appointment.
- I can read.
- I can write for 30 minutes at a time.
- I can watch a movie in a theater.
- I can dine in a noisy restaurant.
- I can exercise.
- I can clean the house.
- I can sleep.
- I can work part-time.
Sure, I sometimes need an afternoon nap, and sometimes I wake with stabbing pain in my left eye or with a loss of balance so great I feel like I’m drunk although I am sober. But for the most part, I am better—better than my primary care physician thought I would be. And, for once in my life, better is good enough for me.
What are some things that have helped you throughout the recovery journey?
Twice a day, I go for walks with my husband. We stroll through the neighborhood for a half hour each time, holding hands, observing nature. From the tiny buds of the lantana plants (purple, yellow, red, and white) to the flowering bougainvillea in our yard, we ooh and ahh over the world waking up. We walk through all seasons—from the bitterness of winter (scarves and gloves and hats, oh my) to the mildness of spring (long sleeved T-shirts and jeans) to the afterglow of summer (strolling in tank tops and shorts after the sun has set) to the bite of autumn with its blustery days and hint of death (layers, layers, layers). We amble through parks, over bridges, beside creeks, and through shopping centers in old neighborhoods and new subdivisions. Our love for each other soothes one another after the monotony of illness, the comfort of routine, and the constancy of changing weather. Our walks are the highlight of my days, the bright spot of my eternal future, and the one thing that I can count on to make me feel better no matter what condition I wake (dizzy and full-headed or clear-eyed and focused). These forays into the natural world remind me I am one with nature. I am part of the cycle of life, the river of healing, the order of the universe.
If you could go back to when you first acquired your brain injury and tell yourself one thing, what would that be?
Rest. Do nothing. Just rest.
What would you like people who don’t have a brain injury to know?
We look normal but we are not normal.
