I’ve spent more time living abroad than I have been a US resident, so why now, fifty years later, after dozens of flights, was I scared to fly alone?
Walking through an airport after a traumatic brain injury (TBI), with the bright lights, loud sounds and noisy crowds, is like bouncing around in a pinball machine. Usually my Frenchman guided me through it, but Gerald washed his passport for the 2nd time in 4 years and his replacement did not arrive on time. Consequently, I flew solo from Geneva to Amsterdam to Minneapolis. After getting through customs, I fell into my daughter’s arms in Minnesota.
I did it! Euphoria was short lived.
With my health history, I never make plans ahead; I never know if my body can hold up for the event. Yet, this summer, I swore I’d return to Sterling to spend time with my 92-year-old mom and visit old friends from high school and college.
I never made it back home!
What happened? Another seizure? A stroke? Mega jet lag?
In the middle of the night, disoriented from sleep deprivation, I turned left instead of right coming out of the bathroom at Nathalie’s and tumbled. One misstep led to another bad fall and an ambulance ride to my least favorite place - the hospital.
Forty-eight hours after landing, I regained consciousness in Minneapolis’ major trauma center (HCMC). Bruised from head to toe, the ER doctor sent me for CT scan, MRI and X-rays, stitched my eyebrow, slipped my shoulder in a sling and strapped my neck in a Miami J immobilizing collar. Immediate action. Super efficient. Life saving steps.
As I lay on the gurney in the trauma bay, various specialists came in addressing my numerous injuries - subdural hematoma (brain bleed), scapula and acromion fracture (broken shoulder), broken rib, fractured skull - and explained they were admitting me to the hospital. I turned to my daughter and asked “are we going home now?”
Instead of taking me home (an absurd request now understanding the extent of my injuries) she called my sisters who swooped in bringing hope. They took turns holding my hand through the terrifying hospital nights. They advocated for explanations and requested more ice, more pain med, more pillows.
Meanwhile, my daughter communicated with my care team and translated medical jargon while trying to recover from the trauma of finding her mom in a pool of blood at the bottom of the stairs, and my husband fought for a space on a flight over the Big Pond.
A week later, with guarantees of round-the-clock care from my husband, daughter and sisters, I was released.
When I was finally well enough to look at Facebook, I saw photos of classmates gathered at the Railside Bar and Grill in Nelson and regretted the fun I’d missed.
I hold a soft spot in my heart for SHS class of ’75 and have memories frozen in snapshots of that interlude of adolescence.
After my high school non-reunion, I had planned on reuniting with “The Family,” my “sisters”, those besties sharing a townhouse during senior year of college. Though we never lived under the same roof again, we remained connected forever.
With such fun summer plans, why did I hang out in the hospital instead?
My French sister-in-law explained it best, “The angels were drunk the day you were born!”
Drunk angels or no, I never liked being told I can’t do things. If I couldn’t make it to my reunions, I was determined to get to the cabin and the healing waters of the lake.
The challenge? So many restrictions? “Don’t turn your head. Don’t raise your right arm. Don’t lift anything heavier than a coffee cup.” My neck brace, worn 24/7 could get wet, but then changing the pads required two people and an engineering degree. Oh, and I had to sit still. Not my forte.
“Biking, swimming and skiing are out of the question! But can I walk in the lake?” I asked. The doctor never answered, just chuckled.
My family made sure my wish came true. With my chauffeur at the wheel, I laid flat in the backseat squeezed between a cooler, guitar and beach towels.
When we arrived at the cabin, I stepped off shore and waded up to my knees, my waist, my shoulders. Then weightlessly, I slid one foot in front of the other.
With pain lancing through my skull and spine, I walked on water.
“You can do it!” I shouted to the heavens. My dad’s voice echoed back from the timbers, “You can!”
Every evening, as stars sparkled over still waters, I curled up on the couch listening to the stories of my ancestors. I drifted to sleep, holding mom’s hand, cocooned in a circle of love everlasting. Back in nature, surrounded by family, I processed my losses with hope renewed. Ready to begin my long journey to healing again.
Family helps with first walk
Feeling old, achy and foggy brained? Experts say learning a new skill is recommended for our rusty bodies and aging brains. For me, relearning old skills is equally valuable. It is never more important than after suffering a traumatic brain injury (TBI) which can effect spatial awareness, balance, proprioception, executive function, listening, speaking and emotional stability.
This weekend at my alma mater, Sterling High School Class of 1975 celebrates its’ 50th reunion. Sadly, the Big Pond and 4000 miles that separate us makes it impossible for me to drop in, but pieces of my heart never left home.
In the 70’s, our streets were safer; outside threats smaller. We lined up on the playgrounds during fire drills and hid under our desks in tornado warnings. But no one could ever imagine a school shooting.
Back then, we walked through the open school gates freely. Now security guards check backpacks at the door and roam the halls sweeping lockers for guns. Active shooting drills have become the norm.
Not right away. But when Title IX started rolling, we were one of the first schools in Illinois to provide girls’ competitive sport programs.
If we ever failed to toe the line at SHS, we had great character-building role models, teachers, coaches and administrators who held us accountable and made us own our mistakes.
and other chronic diseases.
I stopped blogging when overgrown connective tissue crippled my fingers from Dupuytren’s Contracture, a hereditary condition. A hand surgeon split my palm open, removed the diseased tissue and attempted to straighten my little finger. The dozens of ragged stitches across my hand healed, but on top of muscle memory, the tendons and ligaments pulled my finger back into a clawed position in a protective natural reaction.
After a half a dozen visits, the ergo-therapist put my hand in thin, plastic glove and dipped it in warm, melted wax. Then she kneaded my palm and finger to break up scar tissue, restore mobility and coax tendons to loosen their hold on the joint.
Lately, the medical field has been broadsided. Healthcare workers face endless scrutiny and skepticism under a tsunami of misinformation on social media and inaccurate directives from the authorities. That, along with major funding and resource cuts, make their job even harder.
My old friends and teammates will remember my notorious feet with toes so crooked I could hang upside down by them. Back in high school in Sterling, Illinois my podiatrist, Doctor Heffelfinger, gave me my first foot orthoses. He also showed me how to tape each toe to prevent blisters from forming between my phalanges when playing basketball.
When he described the complex dissection required to prevent digital nerve injury, it helped that he spoke English. He drew lines across my left hand and explained that he would cut into my palm to remove the chords in my palm and pinky. Unfortunately, my disease had advance too far for him to perform a simpler needle aponevrotomy.
Dupuytren’s and the collagen had formed spirals around the nerves in the finger joint.”
On the bright side, I retain bragging rights in my extended Olson, McKinzie, Lechault, Carlson, Miles, Westphal, Zhang family. I hold the record for the most stitches. It will be hard to beat!