Rage

It ended in a fit of rage, with a shout that I was in the midst of a nervous breakdown. It ended with a slam of a door, the thud of shoes hitting the wall, the crack of books falling from the bookcase onto the floor. It ended with me on the couch, head in my palms quivering from anger. It ended with me pacing the floor to the sounds of Fugazi and then later, Seaweed. It ended with disassembling the doorknob because the latch had become stuck. It ended with a hug from Aimee, with her telling me that every thing is going to be all right. It really ended as I write these words.

It started this morning with the taste of battery acid in my tasteless mouth. It started when I opened my eyes and told myself I no longer wanted to be a part of this recovery; no more updates, no more forgotten to-do lists. It started with the understanding that I will not be normal for quite some time. It started with despair like no other; morning despair.

The mindset stayed throughout the day. It was inside of me in the doctor's office before my doctor removed the stitches and staples. I quickly masked it when he asked how I felt. I put my best fake smile on and straightened my spine and shot my shoulders back; "Great. I'm feeling real good."

It was just another lie, just another way to describe the indescribable. Just part of the act that I worked so hard on before the accident, the act that I've since mastered.

"Good. You look good," he said.

Just another blank compliment, another empty statement.

My despair remained through the day. It was there inside the grocery store. Once inside, Aimee repeatedly asked what I felt like eating, her love showed and my depression shoved back. "I don't care, I have no taste."

The feeling turned to rage as Aimee and I walked our dog, Artie. The pup was excited. He pulled and didn't listen to my commands. I grabbed him and forced him down to the sidewalk. My jaw was clenched, the battery acid flavored saliva filled my mouth. Aimee asked for the leash and told me to calm down. I didn't say another word for the rest of our walk. I was ashamed and irate at the same time, not calm. The anger stuck with me. It erupted when I tried to disconnect the iPod. My trembling hands fumbled the jack. That's what put me here in this room, my own big escape in my tiny dungeon.

The doctors said this would happen, that depression and anger would increase. At the time I guess I wasn't listening, just sitting there with perfect posture and a fake happy smile on my face.

My Friend, Anxiety

The nerves, the anxiety is setting in. It started in my stomach with a fluttering feeling deep in my gut. Within seconds it had spread up to my head, the fluttering turning to an expanding presence inside my skull. I rubbed my temples. I asked Aimee if it was going to hurt.

"No, it shouldn't hurt. The doctor is doing it," she said.

"It will hurt. They're removing two dozen stitches and thirteen metal staples from my head. It will hurt."

I know this from experience. After waking up from the dark mental abyss they call a coma I remember sitting upright in a hospital bed, a male nurse stood to my side holding what appeared to be a small metal crowbar. I felt the bar inch along the top of my head and then I felt a pain rip through my skull. Another pain, this time starting a half of an inch from the initial pain. I yelled as he pulled out the large metal staples from my head. I cried out so loud, the nurse stopped and a doctor was called in the next day to finish the job.

The pain of metal ripping through my skin was one of my first memories from this experience. It's one I'll never forget, one I'm reminded of each time I look in the mirror and see the inch wide gash above my forehead, the gash that will remain for the rest of my life, no matter how long or how short that is.

It's that same pain that spawned tonight's anxiety, that fluttering feeling deep in my gut and the ballooning pressure in my brain. This anxiety is now so close to me. In the early days of my recovery, I would tell myself none of this was happening. It was happening. Now, the anxiety is there and I now understand it is not leaving anytime soon. The anxious feeling is like a friend standing by my side as we walk on to the front lines of an unimaginable war, the only friend that truly knows what I am going through. It's the only friend that isn't fooled by my act, the only one that sees right through me and sees the fright that lives inside of me.

Californi-abomination

"You should go out, have fun. I'll be fine alone," I said. Truth is, I didn't want her to go. I wanted her by my side, sitting on the chair next to the couch. I wanted to see her sip on a glass of wine as we watched a movie. She is one of the few solid things in my life, always has been, but is more so now than ever. I didn't want her to stay because I felt like talking. I especially didn't care for her having to go through a lengthy discussion on my state of being, I just wanted her there. It had been a trying day, a depressing day, when thoughts, morbid thoughts, circulated my mind; thoughts about my own existence, fleeting wishes about not making it out of the coma, not having to tiptoe through an insecure and unsure life.

I hated the thought of dragging her through another dark conversation, one she would spend repeating how lucky, how strong, how amazing I am. I knew she needed a release and I know I don't have a chance at the same. And so, she left, dressed in tight black jeans, her amber-colored, thick hair pouring out of a knit wool cap. I could barely look at her, I can barely describe how pretty she looked, there are more tears than ever, more love than I thought imaginable. I felt ashamed for sending her off alone, I feel remorseful for shoving her into this.

In seconds, months in my time, she was gone and I held on to the remote control in one hand, a cup of hot tea in another. It's my version of a party, unfortunately, it's my new release. I scrolled through the movie channels. They were filled with Shia Lebeouf movies and cheap, softter than soft-core porn. I settled on Showtime's, Californication. Aimee and I had watched the first season, or should I say we laughed at the first season. It was horrible, another story about a struggling, over-indulgent, misogynistic writer, a misunderstood genius who never says anything clever or enlightening, it's like a sequel to Juno but geared more for aspiring non-original novelists like myself, people who have had their novels rejected by dozens of publishers. A show that is so vapidly cliche that I spent the entire night watching the complete third season.

As I watched, I was reminded of one night in Atlanta, more than a year ago. I was at a bar, my friends were chatting off in the distance. I sat sipping on a beer, smoking a cigarette. Some drunk, bearded dude in his early thirties sat down next to me. I said hello. He responded by asking what I did for a living. I told him I write, I'm a journalist, and I am in the process of trying to find a publisher for a novel I completed a few years back. He responded, speech so slurred I felt trickles of spit on my left forearm, that he too is a writer. He told me he was a writer for Californication. I then told him how poorly written that show was. He stumbled off shortly after.

That was who I was before and watching the new episodes of Californication brought me back and I was once again a critic; for a guy who shortly after the brain injury sat down for hours and was entertained by Transformers 2 and G.I. Joe, it's another example of my recovery, quite possible an unfortunate example, but an example nonetheless.

Recipe For Recovery

Patience is a hard thing to hold on to, now more than ever, now that a stroll around the neighborhood qualifies as an exhausting excursion, or when a trip to the grocery store now feels like a journey to the mall on Black Friday, or, when a shower is equivalent to a day at the spa. Patience, in fact, is one of the two things I was told to have during the first six months of recovery. Only one month into it, my patience is waning and my sorrow is intensifying.

It's difficult, considering most of my days consist of lying on the couch, trying my best to keep my focus on the book I'm reading, or concentrating on writing a meaningful sentence, or, forced to watch Teen Wolf or maybe Bill And Ted's Bogus Journey on an overpriced movie channel because nothing else is on. A day for me feels like a week, two weeks when I'm left alone and it's impossible to stay patient when time slows to a crawl. My experience has left me feeling like a trucker shifting to a lower gear during a steep mountain climb. From my perch in the slow lane I see the lives of others pass me by, unaffected by the slope and unknowing of my effort.

For days, my patience has dipped below empty. Each hour I spend on the couch is an hour lost, added to the hundreds of hours that I spent in the coma. I've told dozens of people that I'm fortunate for my condition, a condition that even doctors are caught off guard by. One doctor even said he was unable to see any any signs of brain trauma. Sure, I might be fortunate, but I consider it an unfortunate fortune.

The other half of the two part recipe for recovery; look at everything with a sense of humor, respond to all setbacks with a chuckle, don't take anything seriously. I'm unsure which part, patience or my sense of humor is harder to hold on to. It disturbs me to picture myself laughing blindly at the gaps in my mind, in my ability to focus, my balance, both mentally and physically.

It perturbs me to have lost my grasp on my thoughts, on my emotions, and it kills me to be confined to a living room, a tiny prison where the television stands guard and watches my every move. Lately, it's been impossible to look at my situation, my wavering mindset and laugh. Mostly, because this injury, this recovery, is no laughing matter, it is my sole chance for change, and so far I am failing, my truck is running out of gas, unable to take me up the hill. The last thing I want is to lean back and meditate and the last thing I'll do is laugh about it later.

Shake, Rattle, And Roll

Today, I was told that forty percent of people that have suffered severe brain trauma are prone to seizures, that the seizures could take months, even years to develop. My doctor also said I might have already had one and didn't know it, that the effects of some small seizures could amount to momentarily blanking out, to staring off into the distance, not talking, not responding to anyone or anything.

'Great, some more bad news. The fun never ends,' I thought to myself.

I scanned my memories over the past month, looking for signs of seizures. I stopped when I realized there have been numerous occasions when I found myself in a blurry eyed daze, though, never did I consider myself unresponsive to the outside world, more fatigued, depressed, or in deep thought.

It started last night. I had been on the couch writing for a solid hour. As soon as I finished, I got up and sat down to eat dinner. As I ate, I felt a tingling sensation in my left hand. I made a fist to get the blood flowing. I raised my arm and then lowered it. I repeated the movement several times. I saw Aimee looking at me as I did. Seconds later, the numbness disappeared.

"What's wrong?" She asked. There was a concerned look on her face. Her eyes were opened wide, her mouth slightly agape.

"Nothing, my left hand is a little numb."

"That's not good."

As soon as she said it, I knew she would bring it up during my check-up the following day. I was right, that's exactly what she did and that's when my doctor let me know about Post Traumatic Seizures, about the odds, the frequency for those with brain injuries.

After we left the doctor's office, after I took up residence on my couch, I thought about the day, about the information and about Post Traumatic Epilepsy. I stared out of the front window, and thought about the condition. I thought about the day of the fall, when I hopped on the bike, leash in hand, and then decided to put the bike down and pick up the skateboard. I thought about how that decision, that slight change of mind, changed my life, Aimee's life, and my family's lives, forever.

A few minutes later, as I stared out of the window, I started to laugh. I thought about the numbness in my left hand the night before. I laughed because I realized my hand might have just fallen asleep. I laughed at the fact that this condition, this brain, now has the power to turn an everyday occurrence into a life altering symptom.

Smell You Later, I Hope

Fresh out of the shower, I walked into the room and opened my dresser drawer. I sifted through folded tee shirts, carefully choosing which shirt would look best despite the fact that nobody but my wife and brother would see me. I picked one and brought it to my nose to make sure it was clean. I inhaled, trying to pick up a scent. I realized as I was sniffing for a scent that I had no smell, that it has been gone since I woke up from my coma. During the past few days, I've forgotten about the senses I lost in the fall. Yesterday, I noticed myself slurping the roasted tomato soup I was eating, searching for flavor. Again, there was nothing. Each time this happens, I grow frustrated.

Initially, I told people that losing these senses didn't bother me but now I realize I just hadn't dealt with it, that it has taken an entire month for me to accept the fact that I may never taste another flavor, enjoy another slice of pizza or fish taco, or to smell the ocean, my home, my wife's scent. I'm just now accepting the fact that I won't know when deodorant is needed, when an extra go at the toothbrush is required.

It's frustrating, knowing the symptoms but not being able to deal with the condition. For instance, I took a break from writing this entry when Aimee stepped in the door. She carried a small pizza box in her right arm. Driven by hunger, I got up from my post on the couch and took the box from her hand. I opened the box and respired heavily through my nose, in search of smell.

"It sucks. I know I can't smell but I still try," I said. It had been just two weeks since my neurologist told me there's no way of knowing whether my smell will return. That there's nothing that can be done to find that out and that only time will tell. Apparently the information was never processed.

"It's going to take some time, you have thirty-three years of smelling and tasting, be patient, it's going to take time," said Aimee, attempting to ease my nerves.

"I've been awake for a month now. I'd say that was enough time. It's hard. The hardest part is this half-cognizant, zombie-like state I am in."

There's no other way to describe it. I feel like I'm shuffling through this recovery, like I'm operating in some sort of unconscious state. It would be one thing if I wasn't aware of it. It would be great if each day of recovery brought on a new level of insight but instead, I am fully aware of my disabilities, though unable to process them, unable to change my reaction.

It's made me realize that I was probably the same way before the fall, that a good portion of my actions and many of my reactions were programmed, hard-wired responses to outside stimuli. I understand I might be hard on myself when it comes to my present condition. Before the fall, I operated in an involuntary fashion whereas now each thought and every move is scrutinized, held under a microscope, in search of some sign of recovery or a clue that improvement is near. It's strange, working towards a full recovery, to a point where much of my existence is dictated by programmed responses.

The Return Of Dumbo

It was time. I grew sick of answering when I was going to shave the other side of my head. The joke that I was a trend setter had run its course. And now, no longer having the helmet to hide the wound on the right side of my head, my trend setting hairdo, fresh, puss-filled wound, and line of black sutures and silver staples was enough to make a person sick. I was ready to shave my head, an attempt to regain some sort of skull symmetry. Though, not surprising, what started out as a basic task turned into an hour full of anxiety and fright, full of nerves and uncontrollable stress.

I commissioned my mom to be my barber. It felt like the old days, when in an effort to save cash, my mom picked up the shears. Soon after sitting down in the kitchen, a towel wrapped around my neck, gauze placed over my wound, the flash backs began; childhood images when her haircuts were cause for name calling such as Dumbo, Dorkian, Elephant Ears. Or the time when she accidentally snipped my left earlobe and droplets of blood trickled down my neck onto my shoulder. I couldn't get the thoughts out of my head, that is until Aimee walked into the kitchen holding the clippers she uses to thin the cat's winter coats.

"Wait, you said pet dander isn't good for the wound. Are you sure we should use those?" I asked. Worry began to set in. Sweat formed on my brow, in my palms, and across my chest and back.

"Yeah, it's fine I cleaned them with alcohol."

My attention shifted back to my mom who studied my head, shuffling from the front of my head to the back of my head while holding small purple scissors.

Her initial cut pulled my hair, I let out a wail. I felt helpless and weak. I convinced myself the tip of the scissors would find my wound and rip through the sutures. I couldn't control the fear and anxiety.

She finished the trim, I felt bad for worrying. I felt guilty for not trusting her.

"Aimee, you shave it. I've never used one of those before."

It was then that Aimee turned the clippers on. They were loud. My anxiety increased, sweat accumulated.

Before she started, I heard my brother on the phone in the background. He was talking to my dad. He joked about purchasing a toupee for me, he laughed out loud and if you know my brother you know how loud that can be.

Anxiety turned to rage.

"Bad jokes and bad timing. I've heard everything you've said and it's lame," I said.

During my brief diatribe, came brief moments of clarity. I knew it wasn't a big deal, I realized I overreacted but I couldn't get those fleeting thoughts to stick. My brother apologized and left the room. Feelings of rage turned to guilt.

Aimee turned on the clippers. I accused her of getting too close to my staples. Guilt turned back to worry. My worry caused her to cut the cut short. I got up, sad and somber, and walked to the bathroom for a shower.

As the water streamed down my neck, I paid the injury some long overdue respect. Often, I forget how serious this injury is, it must be if a simple haircut turns into an emergency operation, an unsanctioned medical experiment, and I transform into a scared, worried little child.