The Time Continuum

Time is speeding up. A change of pace, compared to the way that the last six months of my life have lagged. In the early stages of recovery, time slowed to a crawl as I got to know the person that this injury had turned me into. It slowed even more as I fought the new traits, the depression and the rage.

But the past few weeks I have gone from first to fifth gear with no warning. And now my days speed by in the wink of an eye. I've learned that not only does time fly when you're having fun, time also flies when your recovering from Traumatic Brain Injury.

The decreased attention span, lack of concentration, distractibility, and impulsiveness act as time's propeller. I sit on my couch, computer in my lap, trying to write. Frustrated by my lack of concentration, I get up and brew some tea, or get a glass of water. Different chores that I need to do start flooding my mind. I sweep. I mop. I can't stop. Artie enters the kitchen and I take him out to the back alley and throw the ball for him. Fifteen minutes later I come back inside and finish my chores in the kitchen. After, I return back to the couch and force myself to write for another brief interlude. Once the attention span wanes, I get up and repeat the whole thing over, just different chore in another room. Before I know it, the day has come to an end. I have accomplished a long list of little items, nothing substantive, nothing meaningful.

It's a debilitating feeling, and it tells me that I have entered a new phase in my recovery. The time has come to defeat the fleeting thoughts and the obsessive compulsions, to slow the pace. I thought this recovery was hard before, I was right, I thought it would get easier, it hasn't, just different. It's hard not to want to quit everything. I want to sit and do nothing as a way to stop the thoughts and the endless tasks. I know I can't but I wish I could.

Tasteless

People freak out when they find out that I can't taste. After they lift their jaw off the ground, they ask me ridiculous questions about my appetite and how I manage. I respond by telling them I have no choice. I remind them that I need to eat in order to survive.

Some people have asked if I miss it. Sure, I do but again there aren't any solutions and I don't remember different flavors, maybe that's because of the coma, the brain injury, I don't know.

Today, as I heated up some fake chicken strips, the directions suggested adding some sauce for better results. After reading it, I found myself scouring the fridge and the pantry searching for the right flavor combination. I found some cajun sauce that Aimee found at our nearby farmer's market. 'This should work,' I thought. The next thought that came to my head; 'why do I care? I can't taste."

I realized that the answer to everyone's questions about not having taste; I don't remember that I don't taste, not until that first bite, or when someone tells says how good something tastes and then it's time for one of my classic "no taste" joke, which keep getting funnier and funnier each time.

Smooth Salesman

The motorbike is still in the driveway. It hurts to see it just sitting there. I've had one guy come by to look at it. Fifteen minutes before he showed, I started the bike to let it warm up. I noticed the battery was weak. I let it run thinking it would charge. I turned on the headlight and the bike died. It was out of juice. I sat in my driveway and tried to kick start it over and over again. Nothing. I panicked. I started pushing it down the driveway to jump start it. Still nothing. So I pushed it down the street and jumped on. No go. I called the guy and told him that the battery was dead, that I was injured and haven't ridden it in six months. He said he still wanted to check it out. When he got to my place, I tried to start it again and it revved right up, like the whole thing had never happened. He looked at it and at me sweating profusely from the ordeal and then he offered me $625. I had it listed for $1100. I wanted to grab that little clump of hair under his bottom lip and rip it out. Instead I said I'd let him know and he left.

I don't know what upsets me more, having to sell the bike, or knowing that I won't get what I think it's worth. The former, I guess.

Music Reviews from a lame brain...

Recently, I have been writing music reviews for the paper I work for. And while writing is harder than it was before (it was never easy), reviewing music is especially difficult. Not only do I have to concentrate on the music but I have to concentrate on writing something about the music; a double decker of concentration. For a person with little focus, at times it feels like the second deck has collapsed on my head. Here are a few...click on them and read for yourself.

Miss you motorbike...

Chalk up another victory for Aimee and for my family and friends who have said that I shouldn't ever hop on my 1972 Honda motorcycle again. I don't have the energy, or the strength to fight them. In recent months, I looked for someone who agrees with me that riding around town isn't a big deal. I haven't found that person yet.

Here are my thoughts. Yes, I smacked my head hard and almost died. And yes, another blow to the cabeza wouldn't be good. And yes, riding a motorcycle is more dangerous than driving a car.

So where does that leave me? This injury has already taken enough. Should I stop the things I enjoy because something might happen? Should I not leave the house because my brain took a hit a few months back?

I work from home, I don't travel far, sometimes a mile from my house is the furthest I'd go on my motorcycle for months. I used it to go to the store, to go to interviews by my house. I took backstreets. I enjoyed every second of it, expect those occasions when the bike wouldn't start and I had to push the thing uphill on the sidewalk.

I conveyed this to Aimee and she didn't agree, neither does anyone else. I see their point but I have a couple opinions on the matter. First, I should be grateful I am not dead, or that my brain is not severely damaged and I should not take any unnecessary risks that might jeopardize that good fortune. My other thought, is yes I almost died, and yes I should be grateful to be in the condition I am, but I should take advantage of that condition and enjoy life as much as I can. Being overly cautious will only remind me of what could have happened and this experience will never leave, just haunt me until the bitter end.

So today, I posted my bike on Craigslist. I barely could bring myself to do it. It looked so good shined up, and it felt so good to kick start it and rev the small two-stroke engine. I kept thinking about trying once again to convince Aimee but I know what she will say. I know too well what she looks like right before she cries and I don't want to bring her to tears again. I think she's shed enough. I guess it's my turn to shed tears, for my motorbike. I'm going to miss it.

Oh No, Mr. Bill!

I get stressed over almost anything, nowadays. Stress is by my side throughout the day as I sit and write. I rush through things that I shouldn't because I am freaking out about time and crossing tasks off my list. I get discouraged for not focusing, for not researching, or reading, or making my words fit together as I once thought they should. There's stress when I take breaks to throw the ball for Artie or when I sit down for lunch. Stress has taken the place of fatigue, just another actor in what is one very complex play. Now, my everyday life is full of stress and that stress has increased over the past few weeks. The old me would have expected that something would go wrong. The new me has trouble thinking things could get much worse.

So, as medical bills once again started arriving in our mailbox, the stress increased. I knew there would be bills. I didn't think there would be different sets of bills. Naively, I thought paying the insurance deductible would be the end of it. The old me would have known better. The bills coming in now are a different breed, they are from the doctors and from the procedures that are out of my "network." It's strange considering some of these procedures occurred when I was in the coma; like the tracheotomy, or the cardiograms, or the list of other things. I wasn't exactly in the position to choose the caregiver.

The worst part about it, apart from the cash I have to find, is that I have never been so confused in my life. I am oblivious to so many things now, like I live in a world where nothing else can go wrong, where the unexpected will never occur again, where all that can go wrong already has. I am unprepared for what will come next, whether that be more bills, any unfavorable news, or just what was once an average day of work. Most of all, I am unable to handle the stress that comes with it all. I know it's all in my head, it just feels so out of reach...

Movie Review From A Lame Brain: The Ugly Bones

I've seen my fair share of movies in the past week. What else is one to do when their anti-social behavior is starting to take hold? I watch movies. I've seen good flicks. We saw Crazy Heart. Who doesn't want to see a depressing flick about a drunk, washed-up country singer? I do. We saw It's Complicated. It was good, surprisingly good. I would expound on these movies, throw some neurons their way but I am not going to. Instead I'd like to focus on one movie. This movie deserves some time, some hatred, some bad press, even if only a handful of people are reading this thing!

The Lovely Bones is the latest Peter Jackson flick starring Mark Wahlberg, Susan Surandon, and Stanley Tucci. Sounds good so far, you say? The movie is about a young girl who is murdered by some neighborhood creep. Sounds good, right? The creep likes building doll houses. He also likes devising intricate ways to kill unsuspecting little girls. And while the plot sounds disturbing yet entertaining, this film is laughable, possibly the worst movie I have ever seen. Peter Jackson and the cast should be embarrassed, ashamed, and banned from Hollywood. This movie drags, following the dead girl in a purgatory full of cornfields and gazebos, running around with all of the other little dead girls. I'm not sure what's worse, watching the girl float around in purgatory, or watching Mark Wahlberg and Susan Surandon try and act. As for Stanley Tucci, maybe the worst actor in the history of the silver screen, Jackson should have taken inspiration from Bilbo Baggins in Lord of the Rings and called Tucci's character Dildo Baggins, it would have been a perfect fit.

The worst part about this flick is you can't even laugh at it, you just fast forward through the whole movie waiting for it to get good. It never happens. I'm not a huge Lord of the Rings guy, i mean, I watched the movies but didn't immediately begin to idolize Peter Jackson like so many other people did and I am glad I didn't, because The Lovely Bones shows he has the tendency to suck.

I give this flick a quarter neuron...one of the worst things I've seen ever...