The TBI Chatroom |
With the exception of the work they did in the hospital to get me walking again, I received no therapy for the next 33 years. In 1958 there weren't any brain injury treatment programs, as there weren't that many survivors of traumatic brain injury to make such programs worthwhile, and there wouldn't be for the next 20 or so years. I was one of the few that survived. There weren't any trauma centers or medivac helicopters. In fact, the first six hours after my injury was spent in a small local hospital in Odessa, Washington. The doctors there, I was told many years later, didn't want to transport me to "better" medical facilities an hour away in Spokane, until my parents could get there for fear that I wouldn't survive the trip. My parents got there, and I was "rushed" by ambulance to Spokane, where I spent the next eight weeks.
When I was released from the hospital, I was released to a world that knew virtually nothing about brain injuries and, as such, could be of little help to me as I started up the long road of recovery. While gratefully acknowledging the well-meaning efforts of my family and a few friends, for all intents and purposes, I was alone in my struggle to re-build my life. In fact, I wasn't even aware that other people like me existed until 1991.
My main coping mechanism that carried me from 1958 to 1991 was denial. The physical effects of my injury could not be denied, though I tried to early on. The awkward gait, the balance problems, the double vision, the ringing in my ears, the tremor in my left hand, and the loss of fine motor skills were all real and could not be denied. Ignored maybe, but not denied. My mother commented a few years back that in those early days I would try to run everywhere, and that I would fall down a lot, and that I would get up with scraped knees and elbows and continue running. I'm afraid I used that same philosophy in many other areas of my life also.
But that was physical, it was obvious. People with far worse physical deficits were accomplishing remarkable feats in business and professional pursuits. I reasoned that I had a good mind and that I should be able to do the same. I did have a good mind, but I was not willing to admit that parts of it weren't working right. The fact that the studies that could conclusively prove these things hadn't been carried out yet only served to make the denial easier.
I lashed myself a lot with that reasoning over the 33 year span from 1958 to 1991, and concluded that I wasn't trying hard enough or that I had some serious defect for which I was responsible. It was brutal, but it kept me going in a time when there was no other help available. It got me through high school and college, and it even allowed me a couple of really good years in the working world, but it did a lot of damage too.
When I entered the Center for Cognitive Rehabilitation in 1991, my self-esteem was seriously depleted , my social and marital stressors were high, and I was diagnosed with mild to moderate deficits in several areas of cognitive functioning. There it was, the answer I had been seeking and hiding from for 33 years, it was a damning verdict and, at the same time, a huge relief.
For the next year, my emotions were at a razor thin depth as I processed a 33 year accumulation of suppressed grief, failures, and unanswered questions. An emotional flatness was replaced by a vulnerability that I hope never to lose. It is interesting that during that period, I couldn't attend a movie with a hint of sadness in it without breaking down.
My six months at CCR in Puyallup, Washington, was a turning point in my life. I made impressive gains in many of the areas of cognitive functioning that were deficient, strongly suggesting that it was possible to repair a damaged brain, even after such a long period. Through the center's vocational program, I found a job that lasted 16 months, which was very good for me. By far the most important benefit I received from the Center for Cognitive Rehabilitation, which will hopefully remain with me the rest of my life, was a new sense of self. That is, I learned to accept the person I had become in 1958, and to appreciate what he had become.
I have been married for 22 years, which I feel is my biggest accomplishment in life (not a small accomplishment for anyone), but that wouldn't have been possible without the efforts of a truly exceptional woman. I now get my biggest pleasure out of sharing my experiences with other survivors, offering encouragement and suggestions as they try to find there way back.
By the way, the nickname captain comes from my position as skipper of a 25 foot sailboat.
I won't promise to be prompt in responding, but I would like to hear from other "long-term" survivors.
Email Kent