TBI



I wanted to use a picture of Dory from "Finding Nemo" instead
of using a picture of a real fish,  but I
was afraid that Walt Disney would sue my butt, and
I'm too poor to go to court.   

I write today's story with my husband's blessing.  Not that he may remember he gave it next week, but there it is.

I shared the sweet story of how we met here. Today's a story about the ever after. The in sickness and in health that you're never expecting.

My husband has a TBI, a traumatic brain injury.

He was rear-ended by an 18 wheeler, pushed into oncoming traffic, and then t-boned by an SUV. His extended cab Chevy was totaled.

As was his brain.

He walked away from that wreck without a visible scratch.
All the damage was in his head.  Literally.

Honestly, we got out pretty lucky. I was at work and he called and left me the absolute worst voicemail of all time.

"Hi. It's me. I've been in a wreck with an 18 wheeler in Oklahoma, but I'm fine. Just wanted you to know. Bye."

Of course, I tried to call back immediately, and he wasn't answering.

After letting my principal know and securing someone to cover my class, I rushed up to Oklahoma in a panic. One does not get hit by a semi and turn out fine.

When I finally laid eyes on him, he did *look* fine, but after speaking with him for a few moments it was obvious he wasn't.

"A smarter man would get the circles from the square to put the stuff in from the truck."

"The circles," I wondered aloud.

"The circles!" he said in frustration. "In the square!"

"The square?"

"Yes, Kristi.  The circles from the square!  Jeez, we have a ton of them. We used them when we moved!"

"OH!!! You mean the boxes from the shop!" I said, proud that I figured out what he meant.

"That's what I said!" he muttered in disgust.

"Um, no! You said circles and squares, not boxes and shop."

"No, I didn't.  Why would I say that? That doesn't make any sense."

Oooooooooh.....kaaaay....

I got him in my car and after a few errands to the police station and around town to do wreck-related junk, I finally headed back to Texas, becoming more and more concerned and begging him to go to the hospital the entire way.

There was construction on the road, and we had to take a shortcut.

"Turn left," he ordered.

"Left? But that makes us go north. We want to go south. I need to turn right, " I reasoned.

"That's what I said! Turn left," he said, getting more frustrated.

I was beginning to get the picture, but he steadfastly refused to go to the hospital until I made a phone call to our regular doctor and he refused to treat him.

To the hospital he went. The entire time we were in triage, Big Daddy made fun of what he calls my "tendency to hyperbolize."  Whatever. When I say that there were a million and two people and Wal-Hell or that it's a gazillion degrees outside, you people know it's exaggeration for effect. 

I was not exaggerating how screwed up he was, though....how his words made no sense, and the medical staff soon realized it. In the ER, the nurse and the doctor kept looking at me over the top of his head every time Big Daddy spoke.   Nothing was making sense.  In was out.   Right was left.   On was off.   The hospital bed was now a sleigh.  It was like talking to a drunk kindergartner who had just learned opposites.

We were told it was a severe concussion, give his brain time to heal.   Unfortunately, it didn't get better.

Big Daddy was having awful headaches.   The only way to get rid of them was sleep, and he did that about 16 hours a day. If he wasn't asleep, we were on a ferris wheel of emotion.  He went from laughing to crying to raging within minutes.  He started crying over commercials, getting upset because something was the wrong color of red, or laughing at inappropriate times.  Back to the doctor we went where, after much testing and a half million dollars (exaggeration....but only by about 5 bucks), we discovered he did not have the concussion they thought.   He had a traumatic brain injury.  He had damaged the front part of his brain from the initial impact and the left hand side from when he cracked his head on the side window from the second hit.     Those are the parts that deal with memory, emotions, decision making.

You know, the parts you *never* use.

We are now three years out, and the brain has healed now all it's going to.   We are left with, in the doctors' words, what we are left with.

On good days, it's a nuisance.  On bad days, it's devastating.

Sometimes, it's like living with Dory from Finding Nemo.  He has little to no short term memory now, though memories of things that happened before the accident are fine.

One night, I was browning some hamburger meat.   In came my hubby, searching.  "I'm starving.  What's for dinner?"

"Tacos," I replied.

"I love tacos!"

"I know."

And off he went to watch TV.

I started adding spices.  "Oh, my gosh.  That smells so good.  What are having for dinner?" he asked from the living room.

"Tacos."

"Good!! I love tacos!"

Back to watching TV.

I started warming up the taco shells in the oven, making the house smell like a Mexican restaurant.

"Oh wow!  Something good for dinner!  What are we having?"  Big Daddy asked.

"I'm making you tacos, because I know you love them,"  I replied with a smile

"I do!  Can't wait to eat.  I love tacos."

"I know."

About 10 minutes later, I dished up the plates and called him in for dinner.

"I'm glad dinner's ready!  I'm starving.  You made tacos! You haven't made those in forever! I love those!"

Really?   I had no clue.

Another time, Big Daddy came in to the living room from the bathroom after brushing his teeth, looking confused.

"I can't remember if I've brushed my teeth, yet," he said, running his tongue over his teeth.

Being the teacher I am, I saw a teachable moment. "Well, I know how you could tell.  If you go in the bathroom and your toothbrush is wet, you've brushed your teeth."

"Why would my toothbrush be wet?"

"Well, if you've brushed your teeth, you're going to have put toothpaste on your toothbrush and scrubbed your teeth and then you're going to have rinsed the brush.  That would make your toothbrush wet."

"Oh!" Big Daddy said excitedly.  "That reminds me, I think I need to go brush my teeth."

"Yeah, you do."

*sigh*

I don't know how many times he's started our high efficiency washer filling up with water, went to get the laundry, and forgotten what he was supposed to be doing.

Not so high efficiency, after all.

It's not just the short term memory.  It's the inability to concentrate that makes him unable to focus in a crowd; unable to listen to any kind of music and drive;  unable to drive in traffic or unfamiliar places; unable to multi-task in any way.   Heaven forbid, you try to talk to him while he's doing something.   He will bite your head off faster than a fat kid eating a chocolate bunny on Easter morning.

Big Daddy's not good with time either.  He doesn't know if 15 minutes have passed or an hour.  Sometimes he'll spend hours doing something and not realize it.  Conversely, he may work for 15 minutes, get tired, and think he's been at it all day.

He doesn't remember the dates of things anymore or when something is supposed to happen.  Bless his heart, he had a doctor's appointment this week on Monday at 2:30.   I started by telling him on Friday when I made the appointment.  Then I followed it up with several reminders during the weekend just so he wouldn't make plans with anyone for Monday afternoon.  Monday morning, when I went to work, I woke him up and reminded him.    Later that morning, I texted him.   He asked for me to call him later after lunch and remind him again.  Around 12:30 I did, and then I sent another text at 2:24 just in case.

I know lot of folks have memory issues or suffer from bits and pieces of these issues  but mix them all up and throw in a touch of a grizzly bear with PMS who doesn't know whether he wants to laugh, cry, or eat your head, and you'll have Big Daddy sans his medicines.    Meds help some with stabilizing mood and focus.   Nothing is a forever fix, though.

And so we laugh. Together.  A lot.

We, he and I, make fun together when he forgets a word, when he calls inside, the outside; the fridge, the stove; the dishwasher, the fridge; and the cabinet, the sink, as he always does.   We laugh when Big Daddy's driving and a guy cuts him off, and Big Daddy calls him Skipper Doodle the Butthead Clown and gets angry. We laugh when the OCD which  his damaged brain has developed makes him color-code the towels, or the closet, or the plastic cups in the sink, and he doesn't even realize it.   I move things around so the obsessions and compulsions make him fix them, and then tell him I did it later.   Evil, I know, but together we laugh.  

Together.

We laugh when I use my "Big Daddy voice", this gruff and grumpy Grizzly Adams voice, to ease him out of a bad mood.  As I said on Facebook the other day, teasing him out of a bad mood  is like juggling unstable dynamite when riding a unicycle up a Tibetan mountain pass during a hail storm in the dark while being stung by Africanized honey bees.  Totally easy and doable.  

I don't correct him.  I don't tell him when he has the wrong word for something or that it's been three hours that he's been in the backyard working and he's ruined our afternoon plans.   I don't complain when I remind him to pay the Visa bill, forty-seven times, and he acts like he can do it later, and then forgets.   He's not able to do it later. I don't complain about reminding him thirty gazillion times about a dentist appointment.  I try to be patient when it takes him a full minute to process the question and respond, and then he uses the wrong word to answer.

It's part of my guy.   For better or worse, right?   And it could be a LOT worse.  We are so blessed.

So he forgets stuff.  What guy doesn't?

My only fear is this.......

"Old-Timers" runs in my family.  My only hope is that it skips me.  Selfish I know, but I'm afraid he'll forget to feed me.