Imagine a beautiful angioma

I am in a weird place right now. I want to write to move ahead. I want to write to let go. I want to write to prevent myself from saying or doing anything I might regret.

My reaction time is fast. Whenever someone speaks to me, my brain prepares for an attack. Anger, fear, sadness, and rejection rise to the surface. The thoughts that fire rapidly across synapses are the articulation of these emotions. Having grown up in a house where words were sacred, I find it difficult to refute these irrational thoughts.

During the most recent presidential debate, I yelled at the television. NOOOOO! It was only 5 minutes into the program. My husband made me turn it off since it was too upsetting. I talked to my cognitive therapist about the event. I was angry at the moderator because she had promised to make sure the rules were followed and the questions were answered. She buckled so quickly and I was furious.

The election makes me worry about my future. I worry about money and health care and injustice and corruption and pharmaceutical companies and my daughter and clean water and the list goes on and on. My cognitive therapist asked me if I could trust that things would be okay, that the people would be smart enough to make the right decisions. No way, I replied. Trust is a big deal. History has shown me that I am the only reliable place to put any trust whatsoever. I guess it is one of those hot button words.

Imagine, on the other hand, I can do. I survived made it through my childhood by using fantasy to escape. As an adult, I worked hard to be grounded because I had more control. A job with insurance, a savings account, a mortgage, no credit card debt. These were all the ways I built a fortress of security so I would not be afraid. And now? With the future so bleak and my castle in ruins, I will retreat once again into the land of make believe. Can I imagine a serene and comfortable future? Yes, I can see it and that will have to do for now.

RCK

In 1974, 3 of the 4 kids in my family were kicked out of the Children's Community Workshop School. Suz was already at Performing Arts by then. The rest of us had to leave because the school asked for tuition. It had been free but I guess it just wasn't working without funds from the parents. We contributed in other ways, the food co-op, the storefront thrift shop, but I guess it wasn't enough.
I remember getting up at 4 o'clock in the morning and driving in a truck to Hunt's Point (quite an adventure for a 10 year old) to buy wholesale produce. One of the few times I ever saw my mom cry was when an old lady tried to barter some shopping bags for a block of the cheddar cheese.
The thrift store was probably where I developed my love of old clothes, that musty smell of moth balls, damp wool, exotic laundry soaps. My mom liked to volunteer to sort the new donations which gave us first pick and also meant maybe some items never actually ended up being donated. Hmmm. I am beginning to see our "contribution" in a slightly different light.

My favorite thrift store find was a pair of denim shorts in a Peter Max print:

I loved them so much that when I outgrew them, I sewed the legs closed and attached a handle to make it a bag.

I was diagnosed with a TBI in summer 2008. In Feb 2007, doctor's discovered I had a cavernous angioma nearly embedded in my brainstem after I had a bleed. I had surgery 2 months later and the doctor's were very excited with the results. I went back to work 6 months later full time as a sixth grade math teacher. Although during my recovery time I thought things were a little different work revealed major deficits. During my search for answers, my parents reminded me that I had suffered a serious concussion when I was in sixth grade, over 35 years earlier. 

During a game of RCK (RUN CATCH KISS), I was desperately running away from Fernando a 14 year-old boy in my class. There was no way he was going to catch me because I really, really did not want to kiss him. I was running down a slide (brilliant) in a playground and I tripped at the bottom flying forward and bumping my left temple on a cement turtle. I do not know how long I was unconscious. There was little supervision in the yard of my overcrowded public school. I had only been at the school a couple of months but my regular teacher was also absent so I spent the afternoon drifting in and out of sleep on a couch in the classroom next door. When my father picked me up I vomited and then he brought me to the emergency room. They made my parents wake me up every hour that night and look out for any liquid from my nose or ears. That is all I remember. Then I went through puberty so if there were personality changes who could tell. My father who remembered the incident best died in August 2008 and with him I lost the chance to learn any other significant details. My search for medical records was futile because of the amount of time that has passed.


It is mind-boggling to me that some of the obstacles that have plagued me my whole life might have stemmed from this. I have always been extremely impulsive physically, acting in dangerous situations. This resulted in many more injuries. Despite my lack of coordination, I felt compelled to climb walls if it was a short cut, make off-balance lunges on tennis courts, and run and trip while trying to catch subways. More sticthes, bumps and bruises to my head. My husband used to call me Action Aly before the surgery (well, he still does sometimes but then insists I show restraint).

The Doctor is [OUT]

After 2 years, I ended therapy with a super doc. I love her and I never really loved a therapist before. I always thought it was weird that previous therapists thought I should have any feelings for them. I barely thought about them when I was not sitting across from that chair. It would make me uncomfortable when they asked me about my feelings for them or when they got really excited that I had a dream with them in it. I suppose in some ways the therapeutic model is supposed to be a reflection of a person's real relationships and if so, I have made progress.

Why did I stop, you might wonder. I need to focus on changing my actions right now and less on the emotional background which causes certain behaviors. I am also starting intensive cognitive remediation in the Mount Sinai program soon. It comes with emotional support for people with brain injuries too. I think that is a lot to work on for now.

I will miss you, Dr. S.

I look okay though (because how you look is what matters the most, NOT!)


Photo taken of me by Sachi the night of my last session.

Count Your Blessings!

I went to the bank yesterday to deposit my reimbursement check for my recent sojourn to the NCTM conference in Washington DC. A very successful trip in many ways, BTW. For my 3 night stay at the hotel, I was upgraded to the Presidential Suite at a top hotel because they were overbooked. I paid the previously agreed on rate for a $3000 a night five room suite with Bose surround sound, a fully stocked kitchen, dining room, living room, guest bathroom, personal bathroom with jacuzzi, shower and a sauna that could fit 5 people (I did not partake because the titanium plates in my head do seem to conduct heat better than regular skull bone), dressing room, 3 tvs, and amenities galore.

Standing behind me on line at the bank were a mom and daughter of maybe 8 or 9 years old. The daughter was fascinated by the coin counting machine (the one behind the line had broken down and was being dismantled by an employee so it was open, revealing sorting channels and large bags of coins). Relentless in her pursuit of understanding, she asked her mom many questions in rapid succession about what it was and how it worked. Mom was distracted by her banking needs and had semi-tuned out her daughter's words. A teachable moment like this could not be resisted by the impulsive, altruistic, know-it-all in me and as I had already filled out my forms and had five people in front of me on line. I addressed Jamie directly saying many people have jars of coins that sit around at home getting full. I immediately got mom's attention because although she was not engaged in discussion with her daughter, she was keenly aware of her movements and safety. "Just like us" she said.
"Well, people bring those jars of change in and pour them in the top and the machine counts and sorts the coins. Then you bring the receipt to the teller and they give you the value in paper money. The machine also gives you a chance to guess how much your change is worth and if you are correct within a certain amount, you win a prize."
"What is the prize?" Jamie wanted to know.
"I don't know because I've never won."
Jamie's reply, "I would put in a penny and then guess 1 cent."
"Wow! That's very smart. Your daughter is very smart," I tell mom.
"Yes, when it comes to money, she is very good."
"The problem is you would still have to go to the counter with the piece of paper to get your penny back. You could bring your jar of change and count part of it, then put it in, make your guess, win your prize, and then do it again."
We discussed the many ways of outsmarting the machine and then Jamie asked, "What would happen if you cut a penny in half and put that in?" (The CutCo guy must have been at their house recently."
I explained how the machine sorts out the foreign coins, paper clips, keys, and other stuff that finds its way into people's coin jars and rejects them.
"That's what sometimes makes the machine break down like that one."
Jamie bemoaned the fact that she could not try her experiment to win the prize immediately. I pointed out that there was another machine on the far side of the bank that no one was using. Mom insisted Jamie wait, stay next to her, they would get to it. (I was identifying with the mom, trying to protect her curious daughter, take care of her banking, satisfy her daughter's need to learn.)
Then it was my turn to see the teller. As luck would have it when I finished, Jamie had just arrived at the coin machine and mom was at the teller just feet away. I helped Jamie interpret the directions, watched as she put in a quarter, a penny and then another. She was prompted to guess within $1.99 to win a prize so she carefully typed in $0.27. Mom came over just as Jamie pressed DONE. The machine congratulated her on saving so much, and issued a receipt for 26 cents and her prize.
Mom said, "I guess it lost one of your pennies."
I was already squatting down, as teachers learn to do when talking to smaller people, so I pointed out where the coins that did not make it through came out. The mom and I simultaneously noticed that there was a lot of change already in the slot. A lot!
Mom said, "Wow, I guess we'll split it," to which I replied no way, that her daughter should use it and try again.
Before I started to give her the coins , I couldn't help myself. I had to add a caveat.
"Just remember this day when something bad happens. Some days you are lucky and some days you are unlucky. You have to remember the good days when the bad ones happen."
"It's true," mom agreed. She had earlier accepted my presence, comments, interference, and dialogue as benign, for which I am deeply grateful.
I handed Jamie handful after handful of change and she fed it into the machine. Mom was as excited as we were and had taken over pressing the buttons. When it came time to guess the amount, Jamie said seven dollars. Mom said no way it was more like two dollars but compromised and typed in $3.
Out came the message: "Wow! You sure saved a lot of money. $5.70. Take this receipt to the teller to pick up your money."
No prize for the second round but mom was right, Jamie is very smart when it comes to money. Her daughter's estimate would have won. Jamie looked a little disappointed but I said you still have your receipt for the prize and now even more money. For a 27 cent investment, Jamie got a prize and $6.01 back. I wanted to stay to see what the prize was but I resisted and just said goodbye. The mom thanked me and I left.
The Instructor Strikes Again! ridding the world of misinformation and bringing knowledge to the minds of the curious.

What remain"ed"?

My father's cremains arrived yesterday while I was seeing my cognitive therapy doctor. There is a lot of overlap between emotional issues and cognitive dysfunction these days. I am doing my best to get enough sleep, exercise, and food these days. That way I know at least when my response to a situation is inappropriate we can rule out any of those problems. Plus, they help maximize my brain functions and emotional disregulation. So, Dr. S. thinks let’s deal with the death stuff there and I will focus on the time, memory, talking, language misunderstanding, and brain injury stuff to Dr. K.

I am perhaps obsessing over my father's death. My musings change neither his life nor the choices I made while he lived. Some time before my surgery I stopped fearing death because I realized I would not know if I died. I would only be aware that I was alive because conscious thought is part of life. I was so pleased to come across this article.

I have temporarily placed my father’s cremains (such an odd word) next to Suki’s on the windowsill in my living room. His funeral will be held later this month and the cemetery does not store cremains. Ed liked cats so he and Suki can bask in the sun together. Suki only lived at home with me for the summer between junior and senior years at college. Ed put her under a broken 5-gallon glass water-cooler bottle to just see what she would do and she cut her nose trying to crawl under the tiny edge. Suki spent that summer hiding under the bathtub because Sabrina stalked her. Ed discouraged my attempts to make any modifications for her because "animals adapt" or "natural selection means the strongest survive" or some other stupid shit. I just wanted to feed her in a different room so she could eat in peace. Instead, she ate in the bathroom with the panicked urgency that the wrath of Sabrina was about to befall her. She can tell him her story.

Right out the window, he can see 240 West. We left in the middle of the night when I was 16 because not paying the rent had caught up with us and we were about to be evicted. He told us it was better because there were too many ghosts there. I loved that apartment. I left behind so many books I still wish I had. Ed can reflect the place where he raised Suz, Matt, Tim, and me with our mom Pat, and he can visit those ghosts he created.


Raised is not the right word. He reared us? Attempted to raise us to the best of his ability? My sister's tribute at his memorial showed homage to positive and there were many positives. There were also drastic measures he took to force conformity to the ideals he imposed on us. As extensions of his extremely narcissistic self, his children could each act out fantasies that he could not. He was very proud of the fact that despite brown eyes and curly hair being dominant traits, we all had blue/green eyes and straight hair. We had to speak perfect English. In the guise of WASPs we could go where he could not. He liked to call me his "Cliffy" even though when I actually learned anything in college that contradicted his doctrine, I became the kind of loathsome Cliffy who would have looked down on him. He both hated and loved this country. He wanted us to be all of the icons he revered but pretended that he hated for their exclusivity. Matt was supposed to be a professional hockey player. I was supposed to be the screen actress Ali McGraw or Candace Bergen. Funny, dramatic, all-American. He used to get very annoyed at me when my glasses slipped down on my face. Like him, I have no semblance of a bridge on my nose. It never made any difference to me but it seemed to emphasize the wideness and remind him of what he thought was ugly in himself. It was as if I was mocking him by letting my glasses slide down on purpose. I don't know. I actually grew up thinking I was ugly because of those features.

I love aging because I feel like I do not have to worry about whether or not anyone thinks I am attractive anymore. Who I am is much more about what I do and say. What was I thinking in this picture? I know it is probably my lunch in the bag but I am imagining it is something different because my face is saying, “I have a secret.”