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.

My Superbowl Barbie

I was a disappointed when I learned that I would be in Australia during Superbowl XLVI.  Not that I had much to be disappointed about.  I mean, I was going to Australia.  But this was the first year I'd really paid much attention to football.  I always watch the Superbowl because it's the thing to do, which I think is why many people watch it, but this was my first year in Michigan.

One difference between Ann Arbor and San Diego: Ann Arbor cares a lot more about football.  I went from living in an apartment with four other people who didn't care very much to a house with eight other people, many of whom care a lot.  And my interest was further piqued when the 49ers, my family's team, started doing really well...and kept doing really well.

So when the Superbowl neared, I put it together that I would miss it.  Who knew if Australians even watched football?  When the 49ers lost and it was determined that the Superbowl would be the Patriots vs. the Giants I didn't feel so bad, but it still would have been fun to watch the game with my football-loving roommates.

But I went to Australia, I snorkeled in the Great Barrier Reef, I held a koala, and I forgot all about football.  I just assumed that I wouldn't even watch the game until my aunt's friend Diane who we were visiting in Tasmania asked if we would want to watch it.  So we planned to watch the game at Diane's house and invite a couple people over.

I learned how little Australians care about football when we asked our friend Tim if he wanted to come watch the Superbowl with us.

"The Superbowl of what?" he asked me.

"...of...American football..."

"What is that?"

"It's the..." I had never had to explain this before.  "Championship of football."

"Oh, okay, sure."

So our Superbowl party commenced with me and my aunt being the only ones who had been paying any attention to the season.  Now that was a first.  I had to explain the rules of the game of football to people.  That was a change considering that at past Superbowl parties I have been one of the people with the least football knowledge.  Tim and Nan, Diane's 87-year-old neighbor, needed the most explanation.

"Why do they keep stopping?"

"Why are they wearing all those pads and helmets?  Rugby players don't use those."

Dave, a rare Australian with some football knowledge, explained to us how rugby players are so much tougher than football players that years ago when two American football players came to play rugby in Australia one lasted a day and the other lasted two weeks.

Tim brought potato salad, and Dave brought sausages, or bangers, as they call them.  After Madonna's halftime show he threw them on the barbie.  All the Australians had been telling us that we needed to go to a barbie, and it seemed to be all many of them did on the weekends.  We were glad to have that checked off our list of things we needed to do during our trip.  No, there were no shrimps on our barbie, but we still had a taste of Australia.  And I think the Australians had a little taste of America, too.

And it really was quintessential Australian and American culture colliding: our Superbowl Barbie.