Assessing My Brain Damage

During my time in a spinal cord injury rehabilitation center I had to do all kinds of rehab (hence the name of the center, where I lived for 40 days).  Every day I had physical therapy, occupational therapy, and—ugh—speech therapy.

My speech therapist, who I met with every day at 1:00pm, basically had the job of seeing to what extent my brain had been damaged during my car accident.  She quickly realized that it hadn’t been damaged at all, so instead of going through pointless drills she began giving me math worksheets and things like that, things that were still pretty pointless, but at least not mindless.

She was a really nice lady, but unfortunately I don’t even remember her name.

But I do remember another speech therapist’s name.

Kay.

One day I went to speech therapy to find that my regular therapist was gone for a week.  I was greeted by Kay, a woman who spoke to me in a tone that one might use with…scratch that, it was a tone one should never use with anybody.  A condescending tone that made it seem that she assumed that I had suffered terrible brain damage.

“What’s your name?” she asked me in a slow, over-expressive, I know this is a tough question manner.

“Abby…”

She pointed to my dad, who was sitting across the room.

“Good.  What’s that man’s name?” she asked in the same tone.  Ten seconds into our session and I already felt like screaming at this woman.

“Dal…”

“And he is your…”

“Father…”

“Good! Your regular therapist is gone for a week.  Where did she go?”

“I don’t know; she didn’t tell me she was leaving.”

“She’s in another state.  Is she in Oregon, Texas, or Arizona?”

“I don’t know; she never told me.”

“She’s in Texas.”

The rest of the session went on like this, me with a tone saying, I’m not stupid and her mocking me with every question with a tone that seemed to say, Oh, yes you are.  I honestly don’t know how I didn’t hit the woman.

The next day I went to speech therapy again, dreading it but hoping it would be a bit more challenging.

The first question I was asked was, “What is my name?”

Shoot.  I had actually forgotten this woman’s name.  Maybe I had blocked it out of my memory like so much of the other trauma I had recently experienced.

“I don’t remember.”

“It’s also a letter of the alphabet.”

I briefly tried to think of what it could be, but wasn’t fast enough.

“Is it Dee, Elle, or Kay?”

“Kay.”

“Good!”

That was the last day I went to speech therapy.

No one likes condescension.  One day a young man with cerebral palsy came into rehab, and I couldn’t even imagine how people must have talked to him.  He looked and talked like someone with a severe mental handicap, but his brain functioned just as well as mine.

My experience as a “handicapped” person is something I now draw from every time I come into contact with someone different than me.  Who knows what any given person’s brain is truly capable of.

Accident-prone

"Why did you fall?" the nurse asked me.  I guess just telling her I hit my head on a concrete wall wasn't enough information.

"Well, I had been drinking..."

"Okay.  Was this in any way related to domestic violence?  Did someone push you?"

"Nope.  I just fell."

Less than three weeks after college graduation and I was in Urgent Care in Novato.

"Do you drink a lot?" the doctor asked me when he came in.

"No, not a lot... I mean, I had a lot that night..."

I can understand why the doctor at Novato Urgent Care would think I drink a lot, though.  Less than three months earlier I had been in this same Urgent Care, this same room even, with another drinking-related injury.  The first day of Spring Break I had come into Urgent Care on my way to my aunt's beach house just to make sure I hadn't broken my foot when I fell in a parking lot the night before.  A few quick x-rays determined that there was no break; I had just torn some ligaments.

I was lucky this time, too.  The doctor told me I did not have a concussion, which was a relief.  That might be the reason Novato has my favorite Urgent Care: they always give me good news, and it never takes more than half an hour.

Last time I went to Urgent Care in San Diego, though... wow.  I guess the San Diego Urgent Care wasn't too bad; it was really the Emergency Room that kept me waiting.

The week of my 21st birthday I was having some serious trouble breathing, so my friend Julianne took me to the Urgent Care.  They didn't have the equipment to run the necessary tests, so he redirected me to the Emergency Room.  Six hours in the ER revealed that I did not have a pulmonary embolism (thank God!), but just had some swelling around my lungs.

Three trips to Urgent Care may seem like a lot, but this is something I have done my whole life.  The first trip I remember was to the Urgent Care in Sonora when I was 11 after I had gone off a water slide into a 3" rusty nail.  I remember grabbing my foot and pulling out what I thought was a twig.  After an emergency tetanus shot and walking on the side of my foot for a few days, though, I was fine.

My trips to the Urgent Care started before I was even a year old, my mom tells me.  I have been to Urgent Care facilities in Lodi, Sonora, Eureka, San Diego, and Novato.

A couple years ago I was sitting in a doctor's office after I had fallen at a park in Eureka (not drinking related) and the doctor was taking a look at my medical history.  "Are you accident-prone?" he asked me.

I laughed.  Accident-prone.  I guess you could say that.

Pre-tequila shots and pre-hitting my head. With Julianne, who has gone with me to Urgent Care twice.

No, a Fence

“Cross country is more fun,” I explained to Mike at track practice one day. “But track is safer. One time in a cross country race…”

“What?” he asked. “Did you run into a tree?”

“No, a fence.”

Mike was confused for a few seconds before he got it. “Oh, a fence! I was wondering what you could have run into that would offend me!”

It is true that I sometimes have a lack of depth perception. My sophomore year of high school I was running in a race that was at a campground and turned a corner too tight, ramming half my body into a fence. I was fine, I didn’t fall or anything, but it was a little bit embarrassing.

A couple years later, though, I ran into another fence. We met for cross country practice on the steps behind the gym. We then ran around the tennis courts and onto the street. There was a gate next to the tennis court, but about three feet of space between that gate and the fence surrounding the tennis court made it easy to get through.

Unless the person trying to get through is me. We set off on our run and I apparently misjudged how far I was away from the small gate and ran into it. My shorts got caught on the fence, so they now had a huge hole on the left side. It hurt a little bit, but I just laughed it off and kept running with my friends.

After about a mile of running I looked down and saw blood through the hole in my shorts.

“Oh my gosh, you guys! Look, I’m bleeding!” But I kept running, of course. No need to stop, it was just a little scrape.

After another half-mile the whole team stopped at the park for further instruction from Morris, our coach. Morris was standing facing most of the team, and a couple other girls and I were standing behind him.

“Oh my god! Look at Abby!” Ryan pointed and yelled in the middle of Morris’s talk. Everyone looked. And I actually looked at it for the first time. Not only were my shorts ripped and my leg bleeding, but the cut was a couple inches deep.

“Ooh, you’re going to need stitches on that,” Morris said after brief examination.

I finished the workout with blood running down my leg, then returned to school and examined the gate, which had a huge bolt sticking out the side that I had run into.  I went into the gym and asked the volleyball coach for a first-aid kit. She helped me fix my leg up with some butterfly bandages and I was once again told that I should probably get stitches.

But there was a race the next day. If I got stitches, I wouldn’t be able to compete.

So the next day, instead of getting stitches, I went to the cross country meet (which just happened to be at the same campground where I had run into a fence two years prior) with butterfly bandages, gauze, a huge band-aid, and medical tape all over my left leg.

I ran the race and didn’t run into anything. I later told a friend that I “don’t believe in stitches.” While that’s not true, I do think that because I didn’t get stitches, I have a much cooler scar.

After the attack!  Thanks for the picture, Holly!

Love Hurts...Well, So Does Friendship

Being friends with me can be a health risk.  In Kindergarten I broke Zach Cornberg's arm by jumping on him.  At a track meet in high school my forceful headbutt to Bret's sternum almost send him to the hospital.  These things are almost always accidental, but I still think it takes a brave person to be my friend.

In high school I loved to give hugs.  I still do, but in high school my hugs were very aggressive in nature.  If I spotted a good friend down the hall or across the street, I would run up to her and squeeze her until she yelled out in pain.

One spring day at Eureka High School I was walking out of the science building after class.  As soon as I stepped out of the double doors, I looked to my right and saw Jenna standing in "The Row," our usual hangout between the main and science building that consisted of grass and some benches.  Jenna had recently become a very good friend of mine.  I was only 15 and a sophomore, so I felt really cool hanging out with a senior (with a car!), especially someone as cool as Jenna.

When I spotted Jenna, of course I had to go hug her immediately.  I dropped my bags where I was standing and broke into a sprint toward Jenna.  Jenna had fallen victim to many an Abby hug before, so she knew what she was in for.  Or so she thought.

She stepped backwards to brace herself, but what she didn't know is that Dillon Adams's skateboard was right behind her.  She stepped on the skateboard at the same time as I made contact with her, sending us both flying through the air.

The next thing I knew, I was on the cement on top of Jenna.  Once we figured out what had happened and got up, I saw that Jenna's jeans were ripped.

"I am so sorry!"

"Oh, don't worry about it."  Jenna was always too nice to me.

But I wasn't very worried about the jeans when I saw Jenna limping to her 5th period English class with Ashley's help.  I apologized more, but Jenna said she was fine.

That Saturday was Jenna's senior prom.  I went and saw Jenna, who was on crutches.  She had gone to the Emergency Room after her class, and it turns out she had sprained her knee and her ankle. 

Well, I guess I had sprained her knee and her ankle.  I felt immensely guilty for making Jenna attend her senior prom with crutches and couldn't stop apologizing.

"Oh, it's okay," Jenna said.  "I don't like dancing, anyway."

Jenna and I still hang out almost every time I am in Eureka.  She doesn't let me drive and is probably a little bit more careful whenever I go to hug her, but somehow Jenna still wants to be my friend.

Me and Jenna: Still friends, but I try not to hurt her anymore