a whack in the head

Years ago I was struck by a car that ran a red light in Boston.  All I knew to say to the people who found me in the road was that I lived near St. Mary's.
St. Mary's is a nice, old Catholic church in Brookline ... and not very far from Beth Israel Hospital, where I ended up.
I had been walking back to the T stop near the Heath School where I'd been student teaching.  I don't remember anything about my student teaching or anything from the few months before the accident, except one dance class I took -- maybe because that memory was stored in my body somewhere and not in my language-centered brain.  I actually don't even remember that class very well; I just remember one dance that I did -- the feeling of it and the movements; I could probably do it right now, 15 years later.  There was a woman with severe osteoporosis in that class; she was bent over and had a large hump on her back.  I was so pleased with myself -- that my body worked beautifully.  I do remember that very clearly.

I had two breaks -- one at the top of my spine and one at the bottom of my spine.  I wasn't paralyzed or anything close to it.  I was in a lot of pain and I had injuries on my right arm, hand and leg too.  It was months before I could use my hand again but it didn't seem like much attention was paid to any of those  injuries.  I had physical therapy (a lot of it) but the majority of the concern was focused on the head injury.  I had bleeding and swelling in my brain.  There were nerves in my head that were damaged -- the greater occipital nerve being the biggest issue, I think.  My head would spin, my depth perception was way off, and I didn't see well peripherally.  I don't remember all of the details.  The major loss for me was my ability to read and write -- and speak.  I could physically speak;  I could form words, I just couldn't  remember which words to use.  And I couldn't read at all.
So that was it for graduate school (until now).
I remember being very still.
There was a 7 foot tall, red haired psychologist who administered a bunch of tests and told me that I was severely impaired.   I can't remember the names of my doctors, but there was one woman, a neurologist, and she argued with a lot of people and it seemed like she was trying to get help lined up for me.  She thought my primary care doctor was a joke.  He was a homeopath and she had no use for that kind of thing, at least when there was a head injury involved.   She got me set up at Spaulding rehab in Boston.  I had therapy all day everyday.  I liked the physical therapy because I wanted so badly to feel better; my body hurt and I wanted to cry.  At Spaulding I saw people who had serious head injuries.  They couldn't walk or talk anymore; it wasn't just a matter of not being able to read The New Yorker, which is what it basically boiled down to with me when I compared myself to the devastatingly injured.  Most of my therapy focused on getting my brain to do its job again.  They said I'd have a year to get back what I was going to get back.  I did a thousand logic puzzles and word searches, and reading exercises.

I looked normal.
Everything had changed for me but I looked just about the same.  There was probably a bit of a faraway look in my eyes, but other than that, my exterior wouldn't indicate any major shift.
I did not have much to say though.
It's still hard to describe.
In some ways, in the beginning, I was afraid to speak, then I had anxiety about forgetting what I was talking about in the middle of a conversation and embarrassing myself, but once I started to get better I just didn't see the point in talking so much, or even writing so much.  I had been an English major in college.  I loved reading and writing.  I had been going to graduate school to teach and use creative arts in the classroom.  I really was expected to speak out there in the world.
I had always liked to draw but in the years after the accident I started to draw more and more.  I could write.  I could read... and speak.  I was retested (IQ etc.), out in Los Angeles a year or so later when I was teaching art to elementary school kids, and my scores were high.  I tested well this time, but I could only switch my brain into high gear like that for short periods of time; I couldn't live like that.
I spent (and still do spend) a lot of time by myself.
There was that woman in the dance class I had just before the accident, the one with the hump and osteoporosis; I think of her.  I was cocky. I was lost in my own dance and my own body -- not really feeling what was happening all around me.
I did come close to dying, I guess.  I know that because of what happened to me but I don't think I was ever on my way out -- really.  I had to learn a few things.  And I needed to have my body knocked down a peg or two.
So I do speak now, but mostly to do what I can to serve a purpose.  I talk quite a bit to Charlie and Fiona ... and to my mom.  They might tell you that I talk their ears off sometimes.  But I'm pretty quiet in general, and I need to live in a quiet place and I need to live simply.  Keeping things simple let's me have the space to draw and make things.  Lines and color and faces and all that stuff of human life -- it's fascinating to me.  I'm watching everything.  I learned to turn language off, which I think is a useful skill.  I can let go of words and thoughts and just be.  I also work with kids who learn most efficiently in non traditional ways, which is the best kind of work in the world for me and lord knows I understand them.

I have a teacher who wisely advised me to keep certain things to myself.  I mostly do.
But here is something that falls into the edge-of-death/keep-to-yourself category: I will write it out because it's the only way to wrap this little story up.
After the accident I didn't like being in cars.
It would take 5 years before I would drive a car.
When I was young I had nightmares (many involving cars) but I don't anymore.
There was one dream I had several months ago -- one where I felt a lot of anxiety.  I was driving a car that was going very fast and the vehicle was nearly impossible to control.  It took everything in me to keep this car on the road ... and this went on and on, exhaustingly.  Finally, I glanced to the side and noticed cars that had gone off the road; they were resting in green grass and all of the people were fine.
I relaxed.  I knew I didn't have to keep this car under control anymore.
My car didn't glide off into the grass like the others had but barreled full speed toward the side of a mountain.  I was completely at peace.  It collided and I exploded into a billion pieces and expanded out into the cosmos -- just plain old awareness.
That is basically what getting whacked in the head did for me -- it made me know that I am fine and will always be fine no matter what; it's not about the body or the IQ test or if I can speak in perfect paragraphs (I can't).  One day I'll go, but that will just be the body, and hopefully in the time I've got here with this quirky little vehicle of arms and legs and brain and eyeballs, I'll make the most it and learn as much as I can and help out as much as is humanly possible.