Brain Injury Part I

The following is the first installment of the story of my hospital stay and the remarkable things that God did while I was recovering from Brain Surgery:


I don’t remember a definitive “moment” that I woke up.  There was no specific time of lucidity that marked, to me, a time that I “woke up.”  What I do know is that it was like a dream: I could not recall a specific beginning: just that I was there.  It was like certain types of revelation, where you suddenly know something without necessarily knowing how you know it.

            I remember that my experiences up until this point had been full of miracles.  I couldn’t tell you specific instances, but I just knew it. One of the other several things that I just knew was that I was in a white room with lots of stuffed animals. Three stick out in my mind.  Two of them were horses (One a buckskin named “Bucky” and the other a bay named “Brownie”) and the third was a brown-colored monkey.  He had on a green shirt that said Cheeky Charlie on it.  I remembered my friend: his nickname was “Chile” and I wanted that monkey’s nickname to be CHILE.  I couldn’t talk at that time, but I decided to bide my time.  A couple of days later I had a willing audience.  I looked at the monkey and I said, “Chile,” hoping that the people who were around would understand.  They didn’t.  So I decided to wait a few more days and then explain.

            One of my other memories is of Physical Therapy.  I only specifically remember one of my physical therapists.  His name was Jeff.  He was nice, he was kind to me, and I thought he was wonderful.  I don’t specifically remember instances of him talking, but I remember how he talked.  I can recall some of his mannerisms and that he went on and on.  I remember thinking that I wished he wouldn’t talk quite so much.  There was one time that I was walking and I remember that we were at the end of the room and Jeff made some kind of a comment about how when I was further into my recovery I would walk differently.  With that in mind, I changed so that my manner of walking matched more to what he had said.  I was only able to take a couple of more steps, but I did them the way Jeff had said I would.  At that, I remember that Daddy was there and he kept talking excitedly about how proud of me he was.  I thought I don’t know why they even care.  All I did was walk right.  I’m a perfectly intelligent and capable human being and walking isn’t that difficult. Several times throughout the next few days Daddy reminded me proudly of that particular incident, and each time I mentally scoffed that he was so proud of (what I thought to be) such a menial accomplishment.

At the time that I was undergoing physical therapy with Jeff, I had almost no strength and coordination.  At some point during this duration of my hospital stay, Jeff and my other Physical therapist (I had two.  The other one was female but I don’t remember her name even though I met her later on) stood a mirror up in front of me to help me with posture and balance.  I remember a (seemingly) inhuman effort being required for me to sit up and when I did, I was still crooked and slouched to one side.  Needless to say, they propped up a mirror in front of me.  I hated my reflection: I looked at that mirror and I saw a pale girl in a hospital gown.  Her head had been shaved, all that was left was dark stubble, and she had a line of bloody stitches sticking out around her scalp from one temple to the ear on the other side.  I looked at that mirror, at this disgusting girl trying to sit up, and I thought this is going to take a really long time.   I didn’t even associate with that creature looking back at me.  The moment I looked at that mirror I wished they would take it away so I didn’t have to look at myself.

            When I got my phone, I knew that there were two people I wanted to contact: My friend Chile and my piano teacher.  At this point I had double, blurry vision and I couldn’t see very well under any circumstances.  I tried to find my voicemail to dial it on my phone but couldn’t do it.  Then, once I found voicemail, I dialed it and couldn’t find the buttons on my phone to fill in the password.  A friend of mine and the family’s took my phone to see if she could help.  I told her the password, “It’s -------,” and then blurrily watched her call my voicemail and try to find the password.  She couldn’t figure it out from the “numbers” dial on my phone.  I told her again, and she started trying different passwords.  I thought that this would be like Cheeky Charlie, I would just have to wait a few more days until I was better at seeing and talking and then explain or just do it myself.  At this point, the family friend called my sister and asked her what she thought it could be, while I waited in pouty, frustrated silence.  I ascertained that my sister had replied that she didn’t know what my password was, and then my friend offered the password  I had given. 

“Well how do you do it then?” she asked.  She thanked my sister and got off the phone.  I sat victorious while she punched in my voicemail password.  I don’t think I had any voicemail, but I was still determined to call my two people.  I called Kris: he didn’t answer, he didn’t have voicemail at the time and I knew that he would see I had called and call me back another time.  The other person that I called was my piano teacher.  Him, I left a message.

The point where I start having real “memories,” instead of just fuzzy shadows of situations, pretty much coincides with my move to Rehab.  Rehab was the lowest floor of St. Charles Medical Center, the hospital I was in, and it was to rehabilitate patients in preparation to leave the hospital.  I was moved into room 702, a closet-space at the end of a long hallway between the offices and the therapy gym.  While I was at rehab, I would have three hours of therapy every day: Occupational Therapy (to help me live life), Physical Therapy (to exercise my body), and Speech Therapy (to challenge my recovering mind).