A TBI Story, Green Doesn't Always Mean Go (Chapter 1, Part 1)

Green doesn’t always mean go. That’s a tough pill to swallow. We’re taught from a young age, red means stop, yellow slow down, and green means go. Sometimes though, the universe has a different plan. It delivers life-altering moments when you least expect it. And often in the worst possible ways.

October 29, 2014

It’s just after 7am on a chilly fall morning in Ontario, Canada. The darkness of night hasn’t let up yet. I’m waiting behind about five vehicles at a red light just outside my place of work. Lately I’ve been dragging myself in. Do I hate my job? No. Do I love it? No. I mean, I could I suppose. I have a knack for it. I like helping people improve things, and that’s what my job is all about. Leading system and process improvements. Drama and underhanded politics has gotten really tiresome. Several months earlier I actually asked for a three-month sabbatical. I had a LOT of vacation built up and wanted to combine it with a few weeks unpaid leave to go to diving in Central America. I had even looked into a co-op placement at a marine institute for my 15-year old daughter. My boss had responded with a flat-out no. I swear the Universe, God, or whatever higher power you believe in was looking down saying “Ha, I’ll show both of you!”

The light turns green and our row of vehicles advance. Out of the corner of my right eye, bright looming lights catch my attention.

SHIT!

A thunderous crack and crunch of metal on metal reverberates the entirety of my pickup along with me! I grip the wheel tightly as headlights of another vehicle loom directly in my line of vision. I struggle to wrench the wheel and vehicle to the right, away from the oncoming car. My truck continues its slide leftward pushed by whatever has just slammed into the passenger side. A light standard looms ahead followed by a second jarring crunch. Then blessed darkness.

I smell the rancid smoke before I see anything. I try to open my eyes and shake my head, willing my blurred vision to clear. There are muffled voices. Shouting. More smoke. More voices.

SMOKE! I have to get out!

I struggle and open the door. Hands gently take my elbows and guide me out of the vehicle. A female voice speaks. I don’t register what is said.

“My purse.” I mumble.

“I have it dear,” the kind female voice answers.

I think it’s the same person who has my elbows. I shake my head again. An accident. I was in an accident. There was smoke billowing from the dash. Someone helps me sit on a curb.

“Can I call someone for you,” says the voice.

“My phone. The purse.” I rasp.

My phone appears in my hands. I stare at it, more through it. I can’t figure it out. I just keep looking at it.

I don’t know what to do.

“Let me help,” the voice offers, the lady taking the phone.

“My friend, Sherri please.”

I presume the kindly woman found the contact and dialed. The next thing I know the phone is at my ear ringing. It goes to voicemail.

“I was just in a bad accident. Can you come. I’m scared,” I pause, “Umm. Hospital I think, by my work.”

“Can I call someone else for you dear,” offers the kind voice.

“My sister, Brie.”

The phone is at my ear ringing again.

“I’ve been in a bad accident. Please come to the hospital.” I mutter. My sister is saying something, asking questions. A lot of questions. I shake my head. I don’t understand. “I don’t know, can you come?”

There are more voices, and now sirens, a lot of sirens. More shouting. Strobing lights.

Am I laying on the road? Is that a fire truck?

The kind voice again, “Help is coming. I’ve entered my contact information in your phone. I’m going to stay here for now.”

Blackness.

Voices again. A male this time, “Are you okay? What’s your name? How many fingers am I holding up.”

I must have answered correctly.

“Good, good,” the voice answered, “Okay, we need to get your jacket and sweater off to get you on this board.”

“Shit, last time a guy told me to take my clothes off at least I got a dinner and drink out of it.” I answer.

Silence, followed by boisterous guffaws.

“She’s alright, she’s joking around,” the male voice says over his shoulder then to me, “You sure you need to go to the hospital?”

I lock eyes with whom I presume is a paramedic and the owner of the voice. A moment of stark clarity overcomes me, “I’m in a lot of pain. My neck and back are seizing. I have injuries from a previous accident. My feet are numb. I don’t know that I’m okay. I think I’m in shock. You need to know that sarcasm is my coping mechanism.”

“Okay,” he answers squeezing my hand, “let’s get you on the backboard and to the hospital.”

More blackness. Then bright lights overhead in the hospital. I don’t remember getting here, I don’t remember getting in the ambulance or the ride.

Gawd! I’m freezing!

I can feel myself shaking I’m shivering so much. My sister is pelting me with questions now.

Why is she grilling me?

A police officer appears, “I have a few questions. Can you tell me what happened?”

I try to recant what happened. My sister keeps interrupting and asking for me to expand or describe further. I can’t follow what is said. I don’t know where I am at. The Officer before me nods gently and tries asking a few prodding questions.

“What?” I say.

Then Sherri appears. There is an argument.

Who is she arguing with?

I hear harsh words exchanged. I am shaking harder now. My jaw hurts. A blanket is laid over me.

Thank you! Bless whomever gave me a blanket!

Then the officer, “Let’s try again.”

Sherri is here, holding my hand as I try to relay the story of what happened.

“X-rays!” someone calls out.

I’m being wheeled down a hall on the gurney. I want to shield my eyes but I still can’t move. The lights are blinding and my head is killing. I must have said something, for a towel appears over my eyes.

“Okay, we can get you off that board.” someone says, “Nothing is broken.”

“I need to pee.” I say.

“Okay, you can get up and go,” someone answers.

I try to stand for the first time in god knows how long and promptly fall. Sherri and another person help me stand. I cannot bear any weight nor can I hold myself up.

“My gawd!” she exclaimed, “Look at the size of your ankle! Both of them! They are so swollen!”

I hear another heated conversation between Sheri and someone from behind the bathroom door.

Is that a doctor?

I return and sit on a chair. I cannot get up on the gurney. Someone comes and starts poking at my ankle.

Shit that hurts.

“It’s fine, I’m releasing her. She’s not complaining about it,” says the doctor.

More arguments.

“I’m calling your daughter,” says Sherri turning to me, “Dave will get her after school, go to your place to pack you a bag and get your dog. You’ll stay with us for a few days.”

Sheri continues angrily, “I can’t believe they aren’t keeping you for observations! Or that they think that ankle is fine.”

Why is she angry?

The next few days pass in a blur. I vaguely recall pain meds, a lot of them. And sleeping pills. And a lot of sleep.

November 1, 2014

Dave takes me to get my things from my truck. It is an unrecognizable wreck.

Holy shit! That’s my truck? How? What?

“You okay?” Dave asks.

I can’t talk. I can’t move. Someone has gotten me a cane. I still cannot bear weight on my ankle. Dave walks me back to sit in his car and goes to work collecting all my belongings.

November 4, 2014

Okay, vehicle rental is lined up and I’ve bought a new-to-me used truck that I’ll pick up in a couple days. It pays to have a good relationship with your dealership. I simply called and told them what I was after. They had a couple options ready for me. I just have to go in and sign.

November 6, 2014

It’s been a week and I’m finally back at work. The overhead lights are blinding. Sunglasses inside help a bit. Walking under the lights in the busy hallways, especially by the cafeteria is dizzying. I place my hand on the wall to steady myself.

A co-worker sees me and asks if I’m okay then offers, “Let’s get you back to your office.”

November 13, 2014 AM

Driving into work I have severe nausea culminating in wretched vomiting in the parking lot.

This is not good!

I make it to my desk and lie my head on it. I’m working on a proposal and struggling with finding words and completing paragraphs. I call a staff member Stevie to come in and help edit it. I’m trying to explain to her what I need, and I’m losing my words, then sentences begin to fall off.

I want to go home and cry!

I am so frustrated. I feel like there is a heavy fog and I cannot see through it. I cannot think.

Stevie looks at me, “This isn’t you,” she says softly, “Let’s get you to your clinic.”

November 13, 2014 PM

Stevie attends with my permission and talks with the Nurse-Practitioner, Brian on my behalf. She is explaining to him how I am struggling at conversations and with light. Brian has the report from the hospital. He flashes a light in each of my eyes. Gently prods my injuries, feels my head for bumps, cuts or bruises.

Diagnosis: Concussion.

Prognosis: Months for recovery.

Medical advice: Go home, rest. Absolutely no TV, no screen time. Do nothing. Rest.

“But!” I stammer.

“No buts,” says Brian, “I’m sending you for a CT scan first to make sure there is no bleeding on the brain. They should have done this at the hospital.”

Unknown date, 2014 or 2015

Days, weeks, months pass. Darkness and silence are my only friends. This veil of mental fog simply won’t clear. The days I manage to make it out of bed, I sit in a chair and watch ice freeze over the lake. I watch the ramshackle shanty town of ice huts appear. In the morning they start on the south west side. Over the day they move, or maybe more appear, to the north side.

I am not living. I am barely existing.

The Takeaway

Green doesn’t always mean go. Sometimes it means pause, rest, reflect and decide where you really want to be. Maybe you’ve been going in the wrong direction all along. Now it’s time to make a turn. Sometimes we have to let go of what we think we know and find a new way.

TO THE NON-TBI READER

A concussion is a traumatic brain injury, commonly known as a TBI. In the early days of a TBI, people experience dizziness, nausea, disorientation and often an inability to process concepts. Simple words and conversation can be elusive. Sounds, lights, visual stimulus of daily life is overwhelming. It is a sensory overload. The brain feels like it is spinning unable to focus on a single concept, frequently paired with a pressure headache. It is extremely frustrating, debilitating and depressing.

Things that help me deal with ‘concussion brain’ include turning off the technology (screens), meditating, light exercise like walking or yoga, natural light, a good bed time practice and healthy diet.

Additional posts and stories for more information

Identifying and Coping with TBI, The Early Days

A TBI Story, The Long Winter of Depression

TBI Depression and PTSD

TBI Healing Modalities and Treatments