tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58423315374360757462024-02-18T21:31:25.267-05:00T.B.I. To Be InvisibleAly's Angioma. I had a concussion when I was 11 and then 4 years ago a cavernous angioma bled into my brain. I had brain surgery to remove the tumor from my brain stem. In this, my second life, people do not see ME anymore.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger219125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-17116134323291404792021-04-09T12:10:00.002-04:002021-04-09T12:10:20.880-04:00When will I be okay with me?I taught for 22 years. It shaped who I am. I speak with authority and certainty. I have confidence in my ability to understand and communicate. The problem is that part of my brain is impaired. It is untrustworthy. <br />
<br />
I used to be able to recognize miscommunication a mile away. I spent years rephrasing for my student, explaining concepts in a multitude of ways, seeking the explanation that would give clarity.<br />
On the first day of school, my message was always let's find the best way for me to teach and you to learn. I taught kids to replace the phrase "I don't get it," with "could you please explain that in a different way." The kids who declare "I get it" when they don't are more difficult to teach. I used to explain to the parents of some students "he doesn't know what he doesn't know."<br />
<br />
As a student, math was my best subject. It was fun and relatively easy. When I became a teacher, I realized how hard it is to explain a concept when you never even had to think about it. I grew to love language. At 44, I was at the top of my game. And then a bunch of tangled up, misplaced, tiny blood vessels leaked blood into my brain. Obfuscation abounds.<br />
<br />
So often, I see or hear something and I just trust my interpretation. I asked my daughter why people don't correct me when they know I don't get it and she said I would just argue with them. Well that's a fine mess.<br />
<br />
<br />
According to the Weill Institute of Neurosciences:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"the term <em>executive functions</em> refers to the higher-level cognitive skills you use to control and coordinate your other cognitive abilities and behaviors. Because these skills integrate information at a higher level across
cognitive domains, damage to the executive system typically involves a
cluster of deficiencies, not just one ability. The loss of that <em>administrative</em> control affects the ability to organize and regulate multiple types of information and often cause behavioral change.
</blockquote>
Damage to the executive system often leads to:<br />
<ul><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=5842331537436075746" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>
<li>Difficulty organizing</li>
<li>Difficulty in planning and initiation (getting started)</li>
<li>Inability to multitask</li>
<li>Difficulty with verbal fluency</li>
<li>Trouble planning for the future</li>
<li>Difficulty processing, storing, and/or retrieving information</li>
<li>Mood swings</li>
<li>Socially inappropriate behavior</li>
<li>Inability to learn from consequences from past actions</li>
<li>Unawareness or denial that their behavior is a problem</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
It's that last one Metacognition. Without it, I keep falling into traps. I want to stop comparing myself to teacher me. New artist me is pretty good. Some times.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-15060849219644713782016-07-10T15:01:00.001-04:002016-07-10T15:01:40.290-04:00Quilting After Brain InjuryMy brain injury had a very strange side effect. I could not stop making things. I became an artist because I couldn't follow directions anymore. Because I was left with language processing problems, sequencing and memory deficits, impulsivity, and poor organizational abilities, using a pattern was virtually impossible.<br />
<br />
My process is haphazard. For art, this seems to work well. I spend a lot of time looking at pretty pictures and fabrics. I use my iPhone to take tons of photos of stuff I see that looks cool. I play with my materials creating odd textures or just cutting fabric and sewing it together.<br />
<br />
For years I have been promising my daughter I would make her a quilt from her old t-shirts. I think she gave up hope a long time ago. She told me once that she didn't think there really was a t-shirt quilt, that it was just something I said to get her t-shirts and throw them in the trash. It's like that farm where parents say that pets go to because they don't want the kids to know the dog died, she said.<br />
<br />
Well, it was not a lie. I saved them and for her 30th birthday (What!) I made a quilt. But it was REALLY hard. During the whole sewing process, I realized that despite all my deficits, I still have one of the best qualities anyone can have. IMHO. Perseverance! Stick-to-it-iveness! Stubborn determination! <br />
<br />
I am writing this before I even finish the quilt because I want to remember what I did. I want to remember not what I did right, but what I did wrong. I want to record my problem solving method.<br />
<br />
So here's how I did it"<br />
<ul>
<li>spent a lot of time researching how to make a t-shirt quilt</li>
<li>quickly rejected the idea of trying to cut rectangles and match seams </li>
<li>eventually rejected all methods I could find because they involved measuring, writing, and planning</li>
<li>decided to wing it</li>
<li>chose batting (fleece) with iron-on adhesive on one side so I could iron the pieces as I went along</li>
<li>arranged the cut up t-shirt pieces on wrong side of the fleece so I had to pin down all the pieces</li>
<li>picked the whole thing and carried it to the sewing machine</li>
<li>tried to sew pinned pieces to fleece </li>
<li>stopped after one row of stitching because the pieces were curling up and shifting around</li>
<li>moved to the couch and tacked down all pieces by hand with long strands of thread</li>
<li>noticed there were places where the pieces did not meet </li>
<li>took out all the pins and machine sewed all the pieces down despite gaps</li>
<li>hand sewed patches over the gaps</li>
<li>pinned the backing onto the quilt with safety pins (because I forgot AGAIN that there was iron-on adhesive)</li>
<li>watched a video about free motion stippling a quilt</li>
<li>started free motion quilting from one side of the quilt to the other in rows because that was what the video recommended</li>
<li>did one row that way and then forgot what I was doing</li>
<li>remembered rule about quilting from the center so I did that</li>
<li>alternated between the two methods in a chaotic fashion</li>
<li>sewed with the t-shirt side down so I could see the stitches but broke a needle when it hit a rhinestone</li>
<li>moved all the safety pins to the top side so I could see any rhinestones </li>
<li>started quilting with the top up but could not tell where I had already quilted since the stitch I used to sew down the patches looks very similar to the quilting</li>
<li>remembered that there was iron on adhesive on the fleece so I didn't need pins</li>
<li>realized how many times I needed to switch gears</li>
<li>marveled at the resiliency I've developed and decided to blog about the process</li>
<li>ironed on the back and continued to quilt</li>
</ul>
I'm back to finish this post. I couldn't publish until after my daughter's birthday. I finished the whole quilt in a week and on July 2nd she was surprised and happy to see her favorite shirts from 10-20 years ago. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZtlAgCag2AnzA-6MDEhWdfVKGsPmgbpK7i4WaJ8ElUrJdkjLFY0MEanzOh2poIE0DuVzMRTt4eOzEra8TWYLTKyL5NhK3xy-7TaH1fdcSzqsh8j1byzFi6wrUwHN3BZ-pNMh5o-5BzxYF/s1600/tshirtquilt.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZtlAgCag2AnzA-6MDEhWdfVKGsPmgbpK7i4WaJ8ElUrJdkjLFY0MEanzOh2poIE0DuVzMRTt4eOzEra8TWYLTKyL5NhK3xy-7TaH1fdcSzqsh8j1byzFi6wrUwHN3BZ-pNMh5o-5BzxYF/s320/tshirtquilt.JPG" width="283" /></a></div>
This is a terrible photo. The quilt looks very cool in person. <br />
<ul>
</ul>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-39995740694391466572016-06-17T09:25:00.002-04:002016-06-17T09:25:18.647-04:00Grieving againI'm in mourning again. Unlike being forced to leave my job which was a personal, this loss was not personal.<br />
<br />
Over the last two years, I developed a routine. I traveled by subway three times a week to a bright sunny studio to work side by side with other artists. Continued participation was contingent upon my prescience at one session a week but I went to all three as often as I could. It felt like I had a job. It gave me purpose. But is was work that I could do. I could make whatever I wanted and leave whenever I wanted. Cleaning up on time was always a struggle but I got through it. Social interactions were minimal and I often wore headphones to drown out noises that grated on my nerves. It was the ideal environment for my specific disability. I don't want to describe (although I know I have throughout this blog) the difficulties I encounter interacting with other people.<br />
<br />
I admit that at first I clashed with the director. He threatened to kick me out more than once but I grew to respect and appreciate him. I wasn't friendly with everyone there but little by little I got to know them. I learned people's names and we said hello to each other. There were a few of people there I loved being with and we laughed a lot. I am not good at having friends and I'm okay with that now so our relationship was limited to the time we had there. The consistency of traveling to a place and creating next to other artists fulfilled so many of my needs. I think everyone needs to feel accepted, included, and valued.<br />
<br />
Last month HAI closed abruptly. We had one day's notice and a window of a couple of hours to go in and collect our supplies and artwork. There was no time to say goodbye or ask questions about what was going on. It was devastating. <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/05/12/nyregion/charity-whose-leader-was-attacked-with-lye-closes.html?_r=1" target="_blank">New York Times Article</a><br />
<br />
Yesterday we a had a "reunion" of sorts. Our leader said it was a living art piece. We got together at a small gallery studio space in Brooklyn. (A terrifyingly unfamiliar and journey by subway and foot). We sketched and then we talked and then we sketched some more. I cried, really cried for the first time since the closure. I hadn't realized how much it hurt. I expressed what I haven't been able to tell my husband or daughter or even my therapist what it means not to have HAI in my life. We will meet again but it will probably never be the same. I am sad.<br />
<br />
(Just an aside, I don't "need" to talk about it nor do I want consoling words to cheer me up. The cure for what ails me since my brain injury is mostly to be left alone. This doesn't include my daughter who is my love and my life.)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-39937329112119446152015-08-10T11:23:00.000-04:002015-08-10T11:23:25.728-04:00Glass half fullI'm not a pessimist. I'm a realist.<br />
<br />
The words all pessimist find themselves saying when confronted by those damned, delusional optimists. All systems eventually turn to chaos. The slightest deviation and then ...<br />
<br />
I kept going back to work. The door to my classroom got smaller and smaller. Sometimes it was boarded up, planks nailed across the door frame. The threshold taunting me through a peephole. I could not get in even when I tried to crawl, squeezing into a space no bigger than a doggie door.<br />
<br />
There were more teachers in my classroom every day. I would get there and there would be three or four teaching my class. I tried to get some one's attention from the hall. Hey, I gestured, I'm supposed to be in there. My plea was met with shrugged shoulders and words mouthed. "There's nothing I can do. Look around."<br />
<br />
"Come out and let me explain," I pleaded.<br />
<br />
She finally acquiesced. I didn't even know her name. She started with "I never even know when you are coming in." We sat down and I tried to explain.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I was a good teacher. Really good, I think. I loved the kids. I knew the material inside and out. I could anticipate problems before they happened. I could hear three kids talking at the same time... while I was on the phone. </blockquote>
<br />
"But what did you do?" she asked.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Everything. Art. We drew cartoons. We painted watercolors. We wrote newspapers. We rapped. We did skits. We made videos. We wrapped objects in 1 inch square grid paper to measure surface area. We shopped. We bought stocks and balanced checking accounts. We raced through Ancient Greece. We made snowmen to measure spheres.</blockquote>
<br />
"That's what they did. What did you do? Wait, let me put it this way. What is your background?"<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
That doesn't matter. I taught Core and 2 sections of math. I ran the math club during free periods and before school. I coached the softball team after school and on days we didn't have practice, I tutored kids individually. I sewed costumes for the plays on the weekends and I baked each student a personalized cookie on Valentine's Day.</blockquote>
<br />
"So you basically had no life outside of school?"<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
No, I did. I was a single mom, devoted to my daughter. I ran at the gym. I made delicious dinners. I was in a book club. I played darts in a dart league. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
And then it slipped away. President's Day weekend I went away on a girls' trip with my friends. We drove up to Stowe to ski and snowboard. Marissa Berber, Caroline Boyle, Caryn Duffy, Maddie Franklin. They were my friends. I <b>had friends</b>. There was some drama, a few disagreements and tears but I wasn't involved (for a change). It was so fun until I started to get a really bad headache.</blockquote>
<br />
A small leak changes everything. And now it is a glass half full, a glass half full of holes.<br />
<br />
Narrator's voice: <i>Next week on Aly's Angioma</i><br />
<br />
"Why you want to be in a place you don't even fit in?" and other tales from the subway <br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-35959004636188836732015-07-24T10:26:00.001-04:002015-07-24T10:26:40.046-04:00The graveyards are full of indispensable men.I guess this is supposed to mean don't live under the mistaken impression that you cannot be replaced; that without your contribution, things will not function.<br />
<br />
Okay. Right. I get that. I'm fine with being forgotten. I'm fine with passing on and allowing the planet to fill with new people. But while I am here, I do not think there is anything wrong with trying to make the most valuable contribution that I can.<br />
<br />
The headmaster at the school where I used to work, quoted this to me on more than one occasion. It upset me. As a business model, it's great. You don't want the success of your organization to rely on any one small part. But should you tell your employees that? Why? So they don't feel too important? So they don't strive to make a unique contribution? It sounds like: <i>Remember! You are merely a cog in a machine! We can find a replacement for that piece any time!</i><br />
<br />
What the fuck! I was disgusted that my boss said that to me. I wasn't trying to stand out or patent some secret teaching method only I could do. I was doing my fucking best, constantly striving to improve. I will always do this! I am a problem solver. It's what I do. As a teacher, my role was to bring out the best in each individual student. I asked myself how do I most effectively communicate the information he or she needs. I want to help them develop the skills and tools they will need and use for years to come. Am I the only one who can do that? No. Did I want to do an awesome job at it? Yes. Why? Because I want to grow and learn and be effective for my entire life? I am not a sit back and smell the roses type.<br />
<br />
I feel pretty good about that today. I feel unique and special and valuable. I've thought a lot about what Dr. Soghoian said to me that day in his office. Although he is certainly correct that everyone can be replaced, it doesn't need to be said. Perhaps it is my cognitive distortion (and please, by all means, feel free to correct me or challenge me to a debate), but the message that those words conveyed to my ears were stop trying to be so good at what you do, you're not special.<br />
<br />
I will never lie down and accept that. There are times when that message does run through my head on a loop, an endless tape of criticism, self-loathing, and defeat. That is depression and suicide seems like the only relief. Today I am not feeling that way. Today, even with my disability, I feel capable of making a contribution. I intend to go to my grave doing my best, endeavoring to improve myself, and enjoying the creative process of generating unique solutions. Actually, I'm not even planning to go to a grave. My body will go to a medical school student so even in death someone may learn from me. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-30547781162499419562015-03-23T06:38:00.000-04:002015-03-23T06:38:02.031-04:00Grateful to be alive I still miss my math teaching days. I ran into four sets of parents and one former student this weekend. The children are all brilliant successful young adults now. I was so fortunate to be there to encourage and witness their growth. Now I coax life and potential into inanimate objects. Life is exciting again.<br />
<br />
An interview about me and my artwork came out yesterday. I share it here in lieu of a longer post.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.examiner.com/article/artist-spotlight-alyson-vega" target="_blank">artist-spotlight-alyson-vega</a><br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-18521444207794310882015-03-02T11:03:00.003-05:002015-03-02T11:03:50.364-05:00AnniversaryYesterday was the Fourth Anniversary of my break from the school where I taught for 22 years. There are still aspects of the life I left behind that I miss. I loved teaching math because there are so many ways to reach the same goal. Given one problem, each student might reach a solution through a variety of methods. I used to say learning math was like building a set of tools and then recognizing when each is useful.<br />
<br />
Oh, this kind of problem. I think I will take out my Venn Diagrams. Or perhaps I can just write an expression. Then I will use fraction division.<br />
<br />
If you have the tools at the ready, their usefulness becomes apparent.<br />
<br />
Now, not all students enjoy the freedom of selecting their own method or "tools." I asked them frequently. There two extremes. At one end there were students who just wanted to know how to do the problem in front of them. At the other were the students who refused to proceed until they understood why a specific set of steps resulted in a desired result. The show-me-hows and the tell-me-whys. I loved teaching both kinds and everyone in between because they all taught me something new and that made my job more interesting and enjoyable and even easier as time went on.<br />
<br />
And then there were the kids wanted nothing more than problems. Just give me a challenge. The Math Olympiad. The MathCounts team. My after school group. This was the most fun because I could identify with them. Did you ever try to do a crossword puzzle and have someone look over your shoulder and tell you an answer? I hate that. I want the satisfaction of doing it myself. That's what these kids were like. Hungry, curious, excited, and then even when out of frustration they were forced to give up, they wanted nothing more than to hear how anyone else did it. Their conversations with each other filled with half-finished sentences and partial thoughts.<br />
<br />
I just put all the evens... Oh my god! What a good idea.<br />
<br />
I realized if there were 10 ones, and 9 zeroes... Yes, then you could just multiply those.<br />
<br />
I still love math puzzles. So much!<br />
<br />
This is how I am with art now. I have an idea for something I want to make and then I try everything i can to get there. I don't want anyone to tell me how to make or do anything. I want to figure it out myself. I feel very fortunate to have this particular struggle.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-45606031393565514732014-11-05T11:04:00.000-05:002014-11-05T11:04:22.857-05:00I have to write because there is noise in my headand it prevents me from doing anything else. This blog has served as a release valve for the din in my brain. Words and sounds repeating and ricocheting off the sides of my skull like a a squash ball being slammed against the walls, the floor, the ceiling of the court.<br />
<br />
I woke up sad and angry and ranting this morning. Filled with hatred towards former friends who abandoned me. Some days I can proceed in ignorant bliss, enjoying the life i am building now. Every once in a while (less and less as time goes by) I am struck by how little sense I can glean from my environment.<br />
<br />
The words I speak do not have the meaning I intend. The responses I hear do not match what I thought I said. I demand clarity because I am sure if I get the response I was expecting it will validate that I am making sense. It feels like I am hitting a tennis ball over the net and anyone who has played knows the feeling. The ball sometimes comes back exactly the way you were expecting and sometimes surprises you going faster or beyond your reach or with a crazy spin. That is the nature of the game. I used to love that about conversations (not so much about tennis since I was pretty bad at it. Big surprise since I had a growth lodged against my cerebellum). Post surgery talking to people feels like I hit a tennis ball over the net and a football comes back or an egg or a helium balloon that just floats away or sometimes someone just walks around from the other side and gives me back the ball. I want to scream (and sometimes I do), "Just hit the TENNIS BALL back to me like I am expecting. Why is that so hard?" I try again after explaining and when I still don't get back what I am expecting, it is frustrating. From the other side of the net ( I can only imagine) they are tapping the ball back so they don't understand why I am upset. Or perhaps they are wondering why I threw a bowling ball at them. Inevitably they think I am being combative or bizarre and they walk off the court saying, "I don't want to fight."<br />
<br />
I want to find forgiveness. I know I will be free when I can. It is hard though. I am not sure how many people there are who can relate to the way I grew up. My childhood was chaos. Physical, verbal, psychological abuse combined with poverty instilled in me a strong survival instinct. Self-preservation at all costs. Get what you can and then get out of the way. Empathy is a luxury for people with plenty. I imagine if you are a child growing up loved and cared for, fed and warm, then you have room to develop good will for others. I heard that many people in the helping professions come from abusive households. I know it was a huge reason I taught and became a mother. I knew I give more than what I had. I wanted to make a difference in a child's life by letting her know she is important and heard. I love children and animals. I hate the people who were once my friends and now treat me worse than if I had died.<br />
<br />
I will stop now because my brain is beginning to go back to normal. The volume is going down in there and I can think again. It's been quite awhile since I've written. That is a good thing. Goodbye for now. I will write again when I have no choice. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-13105570172829708272014-06-30T00:02:00.001-04:002014-07-08T04:27:37.361-04:00My 30th college reunionI was planning to go. I snatched up one of the last hotel reservations near campus. I was part of a big email exchange in which we all promised to be there in 2014.<br />
<br />
That was back in 2012. A friend of ours had just died. I really wanted to go to the funeral but I wasn't comfortable traveling by myself yet. The other New Yorker went without telling me. There were pictures and stories and discussions of not feeling guilty for not being more in touch. All of these conveyed through online channels not specifically directed at me.<br />
<br />
I don't want people to feel guilty for not being in touch. I want them to be in touch. I had brain surgery and I don't remember if they called or wrote or anything. I was diagnosed with a brain injury and they definitely did not call or email or anything. I lost my job, I had a nervous breakdown, I wound up in the hospital, I wanted to die. Who calls after that?<br />
<br />
I crawl back to the land of the living a little bit every day. I peek over the edge of the hole I fell into and I see people out there doing what I once did. I wave to my friends. "Hey can I play too?" I guess it's pretty easy to pretend they can't hear me. It's noisy with each person having their own family now, husbands, wives, kids. At 52, they're at the heights of their careers so their jobs are hard and filled with even more responsibility. Plus there's dirt on my face and my hair is messy.<br />
<br />
That's the part that sucks. I would get more attention, more company, more phone calls returned, more responses to my invitations, if I had died and it was my funeral.<br />
<br />
How much should I keep asking to be included before I give up? I'm getting pretty close. I don't want to go back, spend a ton of money, drag my hubby along, only to feel like a pariah. If the friendships are dead, I need to begin to mourn.<br />
<br />
The dastardly thing about my brain since the injury is that I can't tell if my perceptions are real. I get very paranoid and I misinterpret situations all the time. I forget about boundaries and say things I probably shouldn't.<br />
<br />
I was in the store last week. There was one line to pay and three registers. I was next when suddenly the cashier said, "Form three lines." This meant everyone walked around me to be the front of the other two lines. "This is bullshit," I said to no one in particular. "How's this fair? Can't we at least honor the order we were in? I hate this shit." Then I shut up and waited my turn but I was poised to mow down anybody who thought they were going before me. A woman was staring at me. I glared at her and said "What? Do you have a problem?" She laughed and turned to her friend muttering that she wasn't the one with the problem I was. I honestly felt like saying, "I may have the problem but it is about to become your problem because I am fucking crazy. You have no idea what the fuck I might do." I did some mindful breathing and imagined how it would feel if I didn't care who was next. It brought me back and then I was next so I paid and became normal again.<br />
<br />
Would you want me as a friend? Maybe not. God bless the friends I do have! I am so grateful that there are people who love me. I am so grateful that I am still capable of learning how to show them that I love them too.<br />
<br />
I think I'll save my money and skip the reunion.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-30187423309385090542014-05-15T12:12:00.000-04:002014-05-15T12:12:22.180-04:00In sleep I dream I am a different meI stay in bed because I can't fight the feeling that there is no reason to get up. I miss being needed so profoundly it hurts. I dream about my students or about meeting other teachers and telling them I don't teach anymore.<br />
<br />
In my job, every day I faced a brand new challenge. How do I meet the needs of sixty plus kids today? How do I transfer mathematical information and skills from my mind to theirs? Each of them with such different ways of receiving that knowledge and some even resisting, insisting they don't want it, can't get it, won't hear it. I miss the rush and the thrill that I felt when I succeeded.<br />
<br />
To the world you may be only one person but to one person you may be the world. I know I am important to my loved ones, my daughter, my family, my husband, my friends. It doesn't change the fact that I lack a daily purpose.<br />
<br />
Last night on Criminal Minds another wonderful quote. This time a quoted quote. <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<h1 class="quoteText">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“You must give up the life you planned in order to have the life that is waiting for you.” - Joseph Campbell
</span></span></span></h1>
</blockquote>
I am trying so hard. I want to let go. I feel like I have been mourning too long. Grieving this loss is holding me back and weighing me down. Anchoring me to my bed, to sleep, to dream of what once was.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-76254324607501424582014-04-26T05:36:00.000-04:002015-07-25T12:36:21.048-04:00Who am I? No,who do you think I am?I am in the midst of an identity crisis. Today is the 7th anniversary of my craniotomy. Surgeons removed a benign brain tumor, an irregular cluster of blood vessels called an angioma from the left peduncle, cerebellar region of my brain. The growth was about 60% in my brain stem and it was bleeding. Leaving it there would likely have lead to paralysis or sudden death. I am alive and to survive, I must rebuild my fractured sense of self. <br />
<br />
I had a discussion with my sister about a year ago regarding my injury, I described it as "losing the sister you had and getting a whole different sister."<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; color: #2d2d2d; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 0px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 0px; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; color: #2d2d2d; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 0px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 0px; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: x-small;">She said that is not her experience. In her words, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; color: #2d2d2d; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 0px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 0px; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: x-small;">that "... </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">is </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">not my view of you - you may feel like a different sister, but to me you are a continuation of your previous self, with changes."</span><br />
<br />
If I am the same person but with changes, then what does "self" mean? How can I still be me when I do things that I never would have done before? My behavior has been described to me by family and friends, people I trust, and upon hearing it, I recoil. I did that? Yes. But was that me?<br />
<br />
Accepting that I am not a new person, is difficult to fathom. How can I still be me "but with changes," when reality is so markedly, sharply different? It strikes me that a crucial part of being understood is having others accept my <b style="font-style: italic;">sense of self.</b> If my reality is not accepted by others, then I am left to believe it is false.<br />
<br />
I act, then my environment and the people in it react. My brain interprets those reactions and sends a message to ME. I have been told by my doctor that those messages are false. My brain is misinterpreting language, actions, intentions, and social cues. Herein lies a crucial component of the new me. I need to be reminded that what I am experiencing is not necessarily what is being projected.<br />
<br />
I am writing a brief bio for my 30th college reunion and this is what I have so far:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>My daughter Sachi Ezura, Harvard College class of 2008, is the light and love of my life. She is the one constant I have and a beacon of hope for the future. In the past five years I've been battling severe depression. My 22 year teaching career ended abruptly in 2011 when the reality of my brain injury collided with my illusion of competence. I struggle to rebuild my fractured sense of self every day. Sewing keeps me sane. </i></blockquote>
I went to Harvard on a complete scholarship and to my mind, I squandered a great opportunity to better myself. I started off an honor student, pre-med and goal oriented. By the end I was nearly failing out. Crippling depression and anxiety often made it hard for me to leave my dorm room. I beat myself up for years that I didn't do better. My career as a teacher made forgiveness possible. I loved teaching and I was good at it. It felt natural, like breathing. It was who I was. As in most things I do, I endeavored to be the best, and the feedback I got was affirming. My students loved me. Their parents loved me. As a result, I loved me. My psychological need to be loved by many who did not know me (at least not all of me) was being met.<br />
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Now, I have only a handful of people in my life and it is more than I can handle. The frequent misunderstandings render me defeated. The environment is a reflection of me and I do not like what I see.<br />
<br />
I know that this too shall pass. I pray to have gratitude for what life presents. I will keep going, working to forgive myself. I look forward to the day when I feel whole again, when I know who I am, and I love that person again.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-54851091548658324772014-01-04T15:16:00.001-05:002014-01-04T15:16:24.354-05:00So interestingIt's been awhile since my last post. I've been very, very busy and that is a good thing. It's been busy in a constructive way.<br />
<br />
First of all, I'm now part of a supportive community of artists. I don't want to go into a lot of detail here. Suffice it to say, I feel validated as an artist. I've had objective feedback that let's me know I am talented. This has done wonders for my mood and sense of worth.<br />
<br />
Nothing was going to stop me from making things, sewing, painting, knitting, weaving, but knowing that there are people who actually WANT to own my stuff is awesome. It is more enjoyable for me now to just play in my sewing room. Even cleaning and organizing are less frustrating tasks.<br />
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I want to write today because I learned a couple of things about myself. First, I really need to label everything. As soon as I put it down, I have to label the spot. I have a handy bin with supplies for labeling: tape, cards, clips, sharpies. It is labeled "Stuff for Labeling." I have already begun to notice a difference. Sometimes I have a vague feeling that I already have a folder, file, box, or drawer that has the same name but I try not to worry about it. Over time the redundancies are finding each other. If I don't label, there is zero chance of like objects coming together.<br />
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I've had an iPhone for about a year now. It was easy to switch from my old flip phone. Much easier than I was expecting. I'm still not sure how to use some of the stuff but I'm learning. Christmas Eve I was at a party (away from the crowd over on the side sitting on a couch) and someone I just met asked me if I had any pictures of my artwork. I'd already told her I was a former teacher and had to stop because of my brain injury. As I was scrolling through over 500 pictures on the camera roll, she piped in, "Albums! You have to use albums."<br />
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"That is a very good idea," I responded. "I should do that." I found a couple pictures of my art to show her and as I was closing the app, I saw that I had already made some albums. In fact, there was one called Artwork. <br />
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That experience epitomizes the paradox of a brain injury. I can make a decision about how I feel or what I am going to do and then completely forget that I resolved that issue. That is the plus side since doing things twice is better than not doing it at all. Small steps of repeated routines make steady strides. Acceptance feels good. Can I grocery shop by myself? Sure as long as it doesn't bother me that I leave my wallet in the store and have to go back or bring my expired ATM card to pay and then ask the manager if the delivery guy can walk me home so I can pay with cash. (The manager said YES btw. That was a Christmas blessing.) Copacetic is the new happiness.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-73933509712520233512013-07-25T08:29:00.001-04:002013-07-25T08:29:18.543-04:00Marriage after brain injuryI am a television junkie. I use the word junkie because I'm way past addict. The good thing is so far no one has died of an overdose of television. One downside is that when I do interact with off-screen people, my contribution to conversations is often references to something I watched. I start with "Do you watch blank? No? Well so and so said blah blah blah."<br />
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Once my daughter asked "What's new?" and then qualified it with "and I mean with you, not the Real Housewives." I suppose she has a point. Having television friends is great though. They never seem to mind if you don't understand them and have them repeat themselves over and over. It's no problem if you don't pay attention to them or occasionally yell at them for being so stupid.<br />
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The best piece of advice I got was from television. It probably saved my marriage. A couple years after my surgery, as it was becoming apparent that my brain injury might be permanent, my relationship with my husband was very tense. We were fighting constantly. I knew I had changed but I was struggling.<br />
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Eventually, we sought counseling. It cost us $200 a week and we mostly just took turns complaining about what the other person was doing wrong. At the end of each session, our therapist told us it was apparent how much we loved each other. It didn't help. We just kept fighting. I kept telling him he should just leave me. I could hardly stand being with myself so I was certain it was unbearable for him. Weeks went by with no change. We were approaching a breaking point.<br />
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Then one night we were watching television. There are very few shows we watch together but Criminal Minds was one. A child had been kidnapped and the parents were screaming at each other. JJ, an FBI agent, interjects. She says, "After a crisis, people often look for someone to blame. It is easier to focus that anger and frustration on a person rather than to accept that something bad <i>just happened</i>. Now is not the time to blame each other. You need to be able to lean on each other to make it through this."<br />
<br />
My husband and I looked at each other. It was a revelation. That was exactly what we were doing. My brain injury was nobody's fault but we were both so angry. We quit therapy a week later. Now when people tell me I'm so lucky my husband is so supportive, I say "Do you watch Criminal Minds? No? Well, JJ said ..."<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-49946130100115878702013-06-07T17:46:00.002-04:002013-06-07T17:46:38.622-04:00It's been awhileI've been really working hard at getting my shit together. The situation in my sewing room was out of control. Way too much stuff. Armed with giant black garbage bags, I purged. It wasn't easy. Just like those poor souls on Hoarders, I found myself queasy at the thought of throwing away my threadbare sheets. My head was filled with a cacophony of rationalizations. I'll fix them or make them into quilt backs; they we so expensive; they're so soft. I literally had to shove stuff into the trash bags fast and without letting myself think. I am not sure of the exact number but I have parted with over 20 giant trash bags of stuff.<br />
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The trickier part of this process is the stuff that someone else might be able to use. I did donate some useful items to the Salvation Army, books to the building library, and clothes to some friends. Sometimes I just made myself throw stuff away knowing I might change my mind if I held onto it for someone or hesitated. Argh! It's taken some of the fun out of my weekly trips to the thrift store. Last week I picked up a small ceramic rabbit. I imagined it in my home and all I could think was Little Bunny, you are so cute I will have a hard time throwing you away. I put him back on the shelf to be someone else's problem.<br />
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Leading up to this big spring cleaning, I had been planning to blog about hoarding. It's a problem for many people with a brain injury. It is still on my TO-DO list because I have really learned a lot. Another impetus for the clean sweep was what I learned helping a friend pack and move to a new, smaller apartment. I demonstrated very little patience, demanding she make decisions on the spot. No setting it aside for later when all the like objects are located, no way. Also, containers are the devil. It's too easy to think about what MIGHT fit into them. Do you want it or need it in the new place? Yes or no?<br />
<br />
My friend balked, accusing me of being mean. She is certainly not the first person to have described me thus, but I realized I'm fed up with it. I try to be nice, but clearly it is not in my nature. For the first time, I spoke up. I said, "I love you and I'm here to help you. This is what I can do. If this is not helpful, I will go but I refuse to stay and feel bad about myself."<br />
<br />
So, that's it. I have a lot to offer. It doesn't come in a pretty package tied up neatly with a bow, but it comes from my heart. It didn't take too long for my friend to think about it and ask me to stay. She even said, "I would rather have a friend who tells me the truth instead of someone who says just what I want to hear." It was a pretty good day.<br />
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That is until I was riding the subway that evening exhausted and emotionally labile. I won't into the details but I will say I'm lucky I did not get arrested. WTF?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-9939246341252845222013-04-01T11:28:00.001-04:002013-04-01T11:28:48.507-04:00Brilliant Post from my friend over at Mike' Big Brain Bash: April Fool's<a href="http://mikesbigbrainbash.blogspot.com/2013/04/april-fools.html">April Fool's</a>: <br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> April Fool's day is very stressful for me. It is hard enough to follow what people are saying. Oftentimes I find myself stretching to grasp where people are coming from when the say something to me. Very often things don't quite make sense or seem right.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> And then you get a day where people are purposely trying to catch one another off their guard.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">"Did you hear we're supposed to get a foot of snow today?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">"Really!?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">"April Fools!"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Ordinarily that's just good fun, but when a person with a brain injury is the victim it can be quite mean. Everybody feels like a fool when they fall for something like that, and the joker feels quite clever to have put one over on somebody. But it is a painful reminder to a person with a brain injury that they have problems with processing information. Sure, it can happen to anybody, that's the spirit of the April Fools holiday, but for a person with a brain injury everyday seems like that and to have a day that is specifically meant to do that fills them with dread.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> So, if you don't have a brain injury, imagine this; What if every day was like April Fool's Day? What if every conversation you were in had the potential of ending in a "Gotcha!" Imagine how that would fill your day with trepidation. You have to admit that it would get quite tiresome. On April first it is hard for anyone to keep up their guard, sooner or later somebody is going to yell, "April Fool's!" and they will be caught. If it happens too often it gets very tiresome very quickly.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> That's what brain injury is like every day. Except people aren't even trying to pull one over on you, it just feels like it. They might as well yell, April Fool's life!"</span></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-33829945831782657372013-03-14T21:34:00.000-04:002013-03-14T21:34:24.513-04:00Posts deleted in 2010 Post #1<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"></span><br />
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<a class="entry-title-link" href="http://countdown2brainsurgery.blogspot.com/2010/10/was-hoping-i-could-go-back-to-work.html" style="color: #1155cc; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Was hoping I could go back to work Thursday but doc said "No, no, no."<div class="entry-title-go-to" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: url(http://www.google.com/reader/ui/3904077461-entry-action-icons.png); background-origin: initial; background-position: 0% -413px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; display: inline; height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 2px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; opacity: 0.4; padding-left: 16px;">
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<span class="entry-source-title-parent">from <a class="entry-source-title" href="http://www.google.com/reader/view/feed/http%3A%2F%2Fcountdown2brainsurgery.blogspot.com%2Ffeeds%2Fposts%2Fdefault?hl=en" style="color: #1155cc; display: inline-block; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">T.B.I. To Be Invisible</a></span> <span class="entry-author-parent">by <span class="entry-author-name">Aly V</span></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">OR: Why do we feel better, when something has a name?</span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 16pt;"> </span></b></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">Therefore, it turns out there is a big difference between a TBI and an ABI and I have an ABI. That cavernoma, cavernous angioma, cavernous hemangioma or whatever you want to call it was in my right peduncular cerebellum. It bled and swelled into my left pons and left peduncular cerebellum. It swelled and extended significantly into my brain stem and was pressing on my left fourth ventricle. I do not even know where those places are or what they look like. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;">Still no idea of where this is in the brain, its size, or color. I just added those colors because they look good together.</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">The MRI showed previous bleeding. Because of the cavernous angioma's location further bleeds, which were almost certain to occur, could be fatal. I knew brain stem was a risky place for surgery but I weighed the choices: death or paralysis, death or loss of sight, death or deafness. I chose the surgery. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">By the time I had the craniotomy four weeks later, I was no longer afraid of death. Do you know the feeling of surgical anesthesia? In one second, you are gone and then you wake as if no time has passed. Even though hours could pass, you have absolutely no consciousness. You do not feel the passage of time or anything. So I realized if I died I would be spared the knowledge of that outcome. I knew if I woke up, then there was only one logical conclusion I could make. I had survived the surgery.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">Before the operation, Dr. S introduced me to an anesthesiologist resident who was to give me a mild sedative after which I would be introduced to the surgical team. The next thing I remember was Dr. S trying to wake me. I asked if I was supposed to count backwards and he told me it was over. "I guess I am not dead then," were my next words. The good doctor reported to my family that I was awake and already making jokes. No, my friends, that is called logic. It was not a joke. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">Recovery was supposed to be easy but as you may have noticed from my ranting and raving for the last three years it has not been easy. I have had to advocate for myself with my reduced interpersonal skills and general distaste for asking anyone for anything. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">On Thursday, I saw a new doctor and he took the time to ask me questions and to read my medical records. He recognized my tangents, perseveration, and over-thinking and he brought me back to the point gracefully leaving my dignity intact. He asked me if I had ever heard of:</span></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16pt;"></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana;"><span><span style="font-size: large;">Cerebellar Cognitive Affective Syndrome</span></span></span></b><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16pt;"></span></div>
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<div style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">No, I had not so he printed out some information for me. Considering the location of the surgery, it makes so much sense. The symptoms are pretty dead on.</span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Book Antiqua';"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">Disturbances in executive functioning which include:</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Deficiencies in the areas of:</span></span></span><br /><ul>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">planning</span></span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">set-shifting</span></span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">abstract reasoning</span></span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">working memory</span></span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">decreased verbal fluency</span></span></span></li>
</ul>
</div>
<div align="center" style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Impaired spatial cognition:</span></span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></span><br /><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<ul>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">visual-spatial disorganization</span></span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">impaired visual spatial memory</span></span></span></li>
</ul>
</div>
<div align="center" style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Personality changes:</span></span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></span><br /><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<ul>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">disinhibited behavior</span></span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">inappropriate behavior</span></span></span></li>
</ul>
</div>
<div align="center" style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Linguistic difficulties:</span></span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></span><br /><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<ul>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">agrammatism</span></span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">mild anomia</span></span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">aprosodia</span></span></span></li>
</ul>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">These are the words I had to look up because I had never heard of them before.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">agrammatism</span></span><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua';"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<b><i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">–noun</span></span></i></b><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua';"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">The inability to form sentences by virtue of a brain disorder.</span></span><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua';"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">aprosodia</span></span><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua';"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<b><i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">–noun</span></span></i></b><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua';"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">a neurological condition characterized by the inability of a person to properly convey or interpret emotional prosody, referring to the ranges in rhythm, pitch, stress, intonation, etc. in language.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">anomia</span></span><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua';"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<b><i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">–noun</span></span></i></b></div>
<div style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<i><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">(neurology)</span></span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"> The inability to remember names.</span></span><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua';"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<i><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">(neurology)</span></span></i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"> The difficulty in finding the right word</span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Book Antiqua';"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">The problem with dysmentria of thought or cognitive dysmentria as opposed to that of dysmentria of movement is that people cannot see it from the outside. I am and have always been a bit clumsy, more so since the surgery, especially with dropping things, falling when I make turns, misjudging how close I am to stuff therefore bumping into them.</span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Book Antiqua';"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">Therefore, it is still an invisible disability that manifests as personality defects. I have no idea what anyone thinks of me anymore. While I was in the hospital the last two weeks, I felt sick of being sick. Sick of being different. Sick of being misunderstood. I do not even know who I am anymore. I asked that no one from work visit me and I was grateful that they respected my privacy. </span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Book Antiqua';"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 24pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sometimes, I feel like I am already dead. The person I was is gone and I am now invisible. I can stand in front of people and they do not see me. My greetings are met with silence. I feel like a ghost.</span></span></div>
</span></span><br /><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Palatino Linotype', 'Book Antiqua', Palatino, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;"></span><br /></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-16611399060244036272013-03-07T12:29:00.001-05:002013-03-07T12:29:15.792-05:00Blogging over at Lash and Associates today...Check it out...<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.lapublishing.com/blog/2013/job-brain-injury/">http://www.lapublishing.com/blog/2013/job-brain-injury/</a><br />
<br />
Someone else liked my writing enough to use it. Cool. huh?<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-23983004430493344862013-02-18T22:11:00.002-05:002013-02-18T22:12:19.485-05:00Happy Valentine's Day! I'm grateful that I do not have a giant bleeding tumor in my head anymore.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://hungeree.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/ss-130214-valentines-12.ss_full.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://hungeree.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/ss-130214-valentines-12.ss_full.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
Looks like a giant angioma. Yikes!<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /><br />Hearts for sale in Islamabad <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Monaco; font-size: small;"><a href="http://hungeree.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/ss-130214-valentines-12.ss_full.jpg">ss-130214-valentines-12.ss_full.jpg</a></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-70172701550076846472013-02-06T11:55:00.000-05:002013-02-06T12:03:04.951-05:00Why blog?It's been awhile since my last post. I write when I get this feeling that I have something I must say. Maybe, I have a moment of clarity, the Aha! moment when sense making happens. More likely, I write when I am in the throws of confusion and I seek some clarity.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhX1M2MaDyy0E7mKKex6sr3Q5OlExQA0cGMPJzu0DmMrfOifp5OlUyLD5jlck3MjgwNWmHEJQGmcBJ7Dxz9ySvHJqA5SkFhWYwqE23JVmPAywgOkBxafrn-3bsXbixKhWERzisb6xjFpF0/s1600/dancing+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhX1M2MaDyy0E7mKKex6sr3Q5OlExQA0cGMPJzu0DmMrfOifp5OlUyLD5jlck3MjgwNWmHEJQGmcBJ7Dxz9ySvHJqA5SkFhWYwqE23JVmPAywgOkBxafrn-3bsXbixKhWERzisb6xjFpF0/s320/dancing+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I started this blog to keep friends and family appraised of my progress from the time I was diagnosed with a bleeding cavernous angioma. Besides my immediate family, I was not sure who else was reading. I told one teacher, she had taken me to the E.R. in the middle of the school day, and she did not pass on the message to my colleagues. My good friend Joh Kawano told me months later that she had guarded the existence of my blog like a secret. "I'm not sure she wants you to know," he was told. <br />
<br />
Of course I wanted him to know! If I didn't want anyone to know what I was thinking or feeling I would not write it in a public place where anyone in the world can read it. That was the whole point of it, interested people could read it and find out what was going on. Everything happened so fast after my diagnosis. I had my first symptoms in school while I was teaching, a sudden headache and numbness spreading down the side of my face. It was days before I went to the doctor because I was the opposite of a hypochondriac. Then the delay waiting for approval to get an MRI as my symptoms got worse. Once the photo evidence appeared an angiogram to find out if the bleeding had stopped, we got opinions and second opinions about the surgery, and so on. <br />
<br />
I continued writing after the surgery because I could express myself more clearly in writing than in speaking. At one point after I went back to work, in one of the many meetings that were called to address my issues, that same teacher (who had become my administrator at that point) said I could be very articulate or stumbling and bumbling over words. Writing helps me make sense of my experience.<br />
<br />
Over the years, different feelings have come up when I found out who was or was not reading my blog. A couple of readers I with whom I was in communication turned out to be people who knew my father. It freaked me out a little that they had not told me. My family and a few of my work friends continued to read every blog post and encouraged me to keep writing. At the same time, people I considered my closest and dearest friends revealed that they had not really ever read it. Why would the people I see every day have more interest than the people I see less frequently? When things were going south at work, I was ordered to take down my blog. "A parent had complained," was the reason I was given.<br />
<br />
Sometimes when I meet someone new, in the brain injury community or not, he or she expresses interest in my story. Rather than go into all the details, I refer them to my blog after a short summary. I figure that I transfer the power by giving access to the information. You may actively control the degree and quantity of information you get, as opposed to passively listening to potentially more or less that you want.<br />
<br />
Recently I reconnected to a couple of my former students who are now in their late 20's. Both women revealed that they had seen and read my blog. One told me that she was concerned that I might not want to know she was reading or hear from me through my blog. The other was concerned that she might be violating my privacy. Both positions surprised me. If there was <u>anyone</u> that I did not want to read my blog, I would not post it on the Internet where the whole world can see it. I would love to know who is reading and I would love to hear from former students. My life or at least this aspect of it is an open book.<br />
<br />
Two more things before I close, I will not put ads on my blog. I am not writing to make money and have no aspirations of being discovered (although it would be really cool if what I write was actually helpful or universally appealing). Secondly, I do not ever want to become the kind of blogger who writes out of a sense of obligation or attempts to cover specific aspects of brain injury. I stopped reading a couple of BI blogs because they gradually became less personal and started to sound like self-help books spouting suggestions. I don't have answers. I have a lot of questions. Writing this blog helps me articulate my pursuit of learning.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-57230078059070542482013-01-22T08:41:00.001-05:002013-02-05T13:55:12.869-05:00Debugger<a href="http://xkcd.com/1163/">Debugger</a>:<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<img alt="It can take a site a while to figure out that there's a problem with their 'report a bug' form." height="183" src="http://imgs.xkcd.com/comics/debugger.png" title="It can take a site a while to figure out that there's a problem with their 'report a bug' form." width="400" /></div>
<br />
It is when what I rely on to understand how things work isn't working reliably.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-81450923852083217132013-01-16T11:20:00.002-05:002013-01-16T11:20:43.895-05:00It was worse than I thought.Follow up to my inappropriate Xmas party behavior<br />
<br />
I am not laughing anymore. Now, I feel terrible. Previously I wrote:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #15222b; font-family: 'Coming Soon'; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">At my friends Christmas party this year, I was standing at the buffet table. Right nearby three men were chatting when a preadolescent boy tried to dash by. One man stopped and remarked at how tall he had grown. What are you, five three, he asked. The boy nodded and I was struck with disbelief. This kid was clearly at least 4 inches shorter than I am so pointing my finger I interject, exclaiming loudly, "ABSOLUTELY NOT! These is no way he is five three. I am five three so he can't be that tall." Instantly I caught my faux pas as the men quickly averted their eyes. "Sorry. That was inappropriate," I say as I excuse myself retreating to another part of the room.</span></blockquote>
<br />
When I relayed this story to my friend, the hostess of the party, her face sank a little. At the time, just minutes after the event, I thought her expression might have been a sign of empathy for ME. Like she was thinking, "Oh poor Aly and her social mishaps..." Another possibility I considered was that she was experiencing concern that I was too loud and disturbing the other guests. The truth is I had no idea the madnitude* of my social gaff.<br />
<br />
It turns out that the subject of my story is not a preadolescent boy. He is 14! In addition, his parents have been struggling to figure out why he is not growing. There is no way I could have known this but it makes the faux pas so much worse. It's not so funny anymore.<br />
<br />
How can anyone separate my behavior from me? My words sound cruel so doesn't that make me a cruel person?<br />
<br />
For now I think I will stay home and not inflict myself on the world.<br />
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*Madnitude was a typo that I decided to leave uncorrected because the feeling that my mistakes are compounding, intensifying in frequency and severity may eventually lead to complete madeness.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-42961763505897313532013-01-09T05:42:00.001-05:002013-01-09T05:42:15.583-05:00Nightmares: I can't tell what is real anymore.I talk in my sleep now. I scream, I kick, I cry. When I wake up, I cannot shake the feelings I had in the dream. I used to be able to reassure myself, even in the middle of the dream, that it was only a dream, that I didn't need to be afraid or angry. The dream might even change after that. Now, I wake up certain that my dream feelings reflect reality.<br />
<br />
It is 4 AM and I just woke up crying because I was dreaming that my sister and I were fighting, physically like we did as kids. She had me pinned down and was about to do something awful and then she let me go. As my nightmare continued, she walked off like nothing had happened and I demanded to know how she could be so horrible to me, why she didn't love me anymore. The reason, she responded, with finality, was some story about me that our mother had conveyed. It was the disbelief that my sister now longer loved me because of some second-hand information was what led to my tears.<br />
<br />
Even as a kid, i had long vivid dreams and could recall the details and the narrative the next day. What a weird dream dream, I would think. Now, even though I wake knowing that the content of the dream is not reality, I feel certain that the underlying feelings are. It is hard to separate "I" from my brain.<br />
<br />
Now, as I write this and gradually feel more wakeful, the feelings fade. My husband has been waking me during my nightmares, no doubt in response to being woken, telling me that I am dreaming. He says, wake up and stop having that dream. Easier said than done. It is not really fair to him to have to try and sleep through my tirades, but I am more likely going to stop having the dream if I stay asleep. Dreams pass as we drift passed REM sleep into a deeper more restful state.<br />
<br />
What is so upsetting to me is not the dreams but that having a brain injury is so much like that feeling that my perspective seems so real and can be trusted. I was pretty socially savvy before this happened. I made friends easily, was well-liked, but most importantly could breeze through casual social interactions. Put me at a cocktail party and I was perfectly comfortable, engaging with everyone and working the crowd. Now, I am leery and anxious, mostly because I have learned that I might say or do something socially inappropriate. Despite being armed with that knowledge, I am powerless and unaware when it happens. If I am with my daughter, she gently points out that I am arguing with whatever anyone says. My husband scolds me for being childish or inappropriate taking too many desserts or playing with the decor. I recognize when I see the strange blanks stares or when people quickly turn away from me that I must have done something strange.<br />
<br />
At my friends Christmas party this year, I was standing at the buffet table. Right nearby three men were chatting when a preadolescent boy tried to dash by. One man stopped and remarked at how tall he had grown. What are you, five three, he asked. The boy nodded and I was struck with disbelief. This kid was clearly at least 4 inches shorter than I am so pointing my finger I interject, exclaiming loudly, "ABSOLUTELY NOT! These is no way he is five three. I am five three so he can't be that tall." Instantly I caught my faux pas as the men quickly averted their eyes. "Sorry. That was inappropriate," I say as I excuse myself retreating to another part of the room.<br />
<br />
I laugh when I retell that story because no harm was done and it happens too often for me to be surprised anymore. What preceded my bold statement was the certainty that the men would be grateful for receiving the correct information. Oh, thank you, we needed a benchmark in the form of a five foot three middle-aged woman so we could accurately gauge the boy's recent growth spurt. It is a split second thought process based misreading a social cue that leads to impulsive interactions. The messages that my brain sends me are not to be trusted. My appraisal of the situation and subsequent judgment is incorrect. I know that intellectually but adjusting to not believing my summary of social situations when I used to be so savvy is difficult.<br />
<br />
The impulsiveness, the minor arguments, and the slight awkwardness are all tolerable. What leaves me feeling full of despair, hopeless for the future, is my overall assessments of my relationships with the people closest to me. I can be suspicious and paranoid about my family's intentions. I am often certain that my closest friends hate me. When I take the time to spell out, to my cognitive therapist, my husband, or my daughter, each of the clues and messages that led to my assessment, they help me adjust my thinking. I can see how my brain tricked me into reading information incorrectly. I adjust my thinking and feel comfortable again. What is scary is that sometimes I forget that I had that realization. The next day I am mistrustful again. Who will be there to remind me, hey Aly, you figured out that you were reading that wrong and you are cool with it now? If the answer is just me, I am in trouble because my brain is a big fat liar now.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-63192038241676096492012-12-15T13:03:00.002-05:002012-12-15T13:04:46.935-05:00It's not what you said. It's just what my brain thought you said.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">I find one of the most
frustrating aspects of brain injury is the challenge of e</span><span style="font-family: Times;">xpressing the changes
my brain has undergone. I see a cognitive ther</span><span style="font-family: Times;">apist and it bothers me that I have
to clarify my issues. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">One issue with which I struggle
is language processing. I told my therapist that sometimes I do not understand
what someone says despite asking them to repeat it. She suggested I ask them to
spell it for me. I could not explain why this does not help the words or their
meaning get into my brain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">I once asked a lady where she got
a lovely robe she was folding in the laundry room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Master Whore on the street, is what I thought I heard. I
knew that could not be right so I asked her to repeat it. I listened carefully,
convinced that it was the word “whore” that was wrong. Master Borgas Street? I
gave up and nodded. It was obviously not a place I could go. Hours later up in
my apartment I replayed the conversation in my mind and then I said the words
out loud. Duh! Where would you get a bathrobe? Victoria’s Secret! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">A few days ago I was on a
conference call with some members of the Brain Injury Association of New York
City chapter. (Such a bad idea! People with BI on the phone with multiple other
people with BI. Yikes!) The discussion concerned our choice of movies for an upcoming
event, selected shorts or a full-length feature film. L mentioned a seven-minute
film. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">“Seventy minutes?” asked E.<br /> </span><span style="font-family: Times;">“No. Seven minutes,” repeated L.</span><span style="font-family: Times;">"70?"</span><span style="font-family: Times;">"No. 7!"</span></span></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">This went back and forth until E.
explained that it was easier for her to understand numbers if the other person
said every digit, like seven – zero. Can you please say it that way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">Okay, said L, it is a seven-minute
movie. E just kept hearing seventy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">“Seven – zero?” E kept asking.</span><span style="font-family: Times;">“No, seven!” L kept repeating.</span></span></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">It was frustrating to listen to
the interaction but it made my own issue a little clearer. The misunderstood
meaning had made its way into E’s brain and it was not going to change. She
heard seventy and it was like she thought L was refusing to comply with her
request to state each digit. As a result, she kept emphasizing SEVEN – ZERO,
like she was telling L – please say it this way so I can understand you better.
Eventually, she gave up and began to refer to the length of the movie as “a
little over an hour.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">I am sure you can imagine what
happened after that. Everyone tried to help her understand, all talking at once.
It seems comical when I reflect on it. It is hilarious, even, in a who’s-on-first?-kind
of way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">It makes me laugh because I'm relieved knowing I'm not the only one with this particular symptom
of brain injury. I do not have the answer nor how my cognitive therapist
can help me, but spelling does not make things clearer once my brain receives a scrambled message.</span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-84539906615884043382012-12-03T10:38:00.000-05:002012-12-03T10:47:02.412-05:00Dr. Schmahmann: The Cerebellar Cognitive Affective Syndrome<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/QuqDnwkuCHI?fs=1" width="480"></iframe><br />
<br />
What up, Doc? Thank you for having better answers, Dr. Schmahmann.<br />
<br />
This is a long video, but my favorite part is when he says:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br />
<div style="font: 28.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
It is not “in your head”, it is in your brain.</div>
</blockquote>
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5842331537436075746.post-76801210501746226032012-11-30T12:27:00.000-05:002012-11-30T12:27:01.917-05:00Ideas for future postsAm I an artist or just a tool?<br />
<br />
24 hours of BIMs (brain injured moments)<br />
<br />
Mocking emails I sent when I thought I hit FORWARD but I really hit REPLY<br />
<br />
Why TV characters make the best friends<br />
<br />
Expensive things I HAD to have and never use<br />
<br />
The look-at-me actress and her gay best friend who always sit next to me at every show<br />
<br />
The Puerto Rican Day Parade is the one day I am not Puerto Rican<br />
<br />
Candy CANES? Are you mocking me?<br />
<br />
"PTSD is the new Chronic Fatigue Syndrome" and other absurd things my "friends" have said<br />
<br />
"The cemetery is filled with indispensable people" and other horrible things my boss said<br />
<br />
Jazz is a good metaphor for how my brain works, but I still hate jazz; "Just play the right note"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0