Why 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 anyone 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.

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.

PUT DOWN YOUR RULER

Yesterday, I officially withdrew from my Masters degree program. It makes me so sad to say that. Sad is an understatement.

Although the only action I needed to take was to write a short letter to the director of the program, my instincts to preserve my sense of self rendered me paralyzed, unable to execute this task for months.

I taught for 22 years. Prior to my surgery, I had spent the previous 12 years as THE sixth grade math teacher. When I started teaching just math, there was an honors section and three regular classes. Although it was not called "honors" and followed the same curriculum as the other sections, everyone knew it was the "top" group. It was a lot of fun teaching that section. It was not easy like many teachers thought. It was challenging and exciting and it was where I found my real strength as a teacher. When they did away with the advanced section, it became my personal mission to find a way to teach the gifted math student in a regular math class. A successful system would be one that benefited all of the students.

After my surgery, my return to work was a spectacular disaster. In previous years, Labor Day weekend meant the return to school to dust off materials, make a few copies, and label all the student supplies. In 2007, I returned to my classroom in August to prepare for a new year as I had always done. That first day back, I found myself sitting on the floor crying. I had been there for 5 hours and had accomplished nothing. It was the teacher who had subbed for me during my absence who consoled me, encouraging me to be patient with myself. For a fleeting moment, I felt like everything would be okay.

Month after month, things got worse and worse. I could not learn my students' names. I had never used lesson plans before. I had never needed them but suddenly, I was writing things on the board that made no sense. I could not talk and write at the same time. I could no longer do anything that required thought if there was any noise at all. Good luck trying to silence a group of sixth graders so you can string together an intelligible sentence. On the rare occasion I was able to get everyone to completely freeze and not utter a sound, my method for reaching that state was so alarming that my students were too terrified to process whatever it was I had wanted to say.

The advice I got was the same from everyone. Stop trying so hard. You don't have to be the perfect teacher. Just go in and stick to the plan. That is good enough. Even if I could have done that, it would have been so out of character for me. I had been a great teacher because I loved doing it. I loved the students. I loved the material. I loved a challenge and I was creative in my strategies for problem solving. I could get the classes' attention by whispering, by speaking another language, by singing my lesson, by doing a silly dance, or even by whipping out a puppet to take over the lesson. My favorite was my king puppet.

I got King Puppet at the Bank Street Book Store. I was drawn to him because his beard was so soft and furry. I used to love to bring him out at the start of our measurement unit, exclaiming simultaneously, "Take out your RULERS!"

After the first year back, my class load was cut in half. The next year, all of my classes were taken away and I was asked to work with just a few students who were gifted in math. Although, I was beginning to get a picture of the damage my brain injury did to my abilities as a teacher, I was, for the most part, in denial. It felt like a nightmare, being stripped of my responsibilities, my title as chair of the math department, my esteem in the community. However at the end of that third year, I thought I had found my new post-injury place. Although I could not plan a lesson or teach a whole group, I could work with one or two precocious kids whose needs I could assess on the spot. My long-term memory for math was intact so with help I was able to retrieve materials and introduce a new enriching and stimulating topic to a kid who was bored out of his mind in his regular class. That spring I applied to and was accepted into the Three Summers Masters Program in Gifted Education at the University of Connecticut. I think I remember blogging about being like the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz. If I couldn't have a brain at least I would have a degree.

Fast forward to today. I stopped teaching last year and day after day, week after week, month after month, I have begun to accept that I cannot teach anymore. I wanted to hold onto a tiny bit of possibility. I thought I wanted to pursue the degree so at least I could write about the subject. If I had lost my reputation as an expert in my field, those letters after my name might be an acceptable substitute. Although some of the schoolwork was manageable, most of it required skills I lost like planning. Officially dropping out of the program was like admitting defeat, letting go of the last lingering hope that I might some day wake up from this nightmare and be my old self again.

My cognitive therapist helped me write the letter during a session. It took me 2 weeks to type it up and then I finally printed it and popped it in the mail. When I was shutting down the computer, I realized I had not dated the letter. Oops. Nothing I can do now.

Later in the afternoon, I was cleaning up and this sight caught my eye. I am not sure how or when he got there. Framed in the glow of the sun through the window was King Puppet laying face down on a stool. How perfect! How beautiful! How symbolic! The King Must Die! It took awhile but I was finally able to let myself put down my ruler.

When will I forget?

After my cavernoma bled into my brain and I had to have a craniotomy, my memory suffered a major blow. I forget a whole lot of stuff. I don't remember people I have met, places I have been, words for things, and episodes of tv shows. That last one is major since I used to be able to recite the entire plot of a tv show, often quoting the dialogue verbatim. Now, not so much. The weird thing is I cannot predict what I am going to remember and what I will forget. I used to argue with people about stuff that happened. Now, not so much. It is pretty safe for me to assume I am wrong. When I was at work, people actually mocked me by saying, "I thought you said you couldn't remember." Okay, true. I did say that but... If you want to guarantee that I will not forget something then add some emotional trauma to the incident. For example, insult me and my intelligence. Question my judgement or ability to do my job. Point out all the tiny mistakes I keep making and exaggerate their importance.

There is nothing like a whole bunch of people you no longer trust telling you that your perception of reality is skewed to feed a growing feeling of paranoia. I want to forget everything that happened at work. I want to be free of all of it. I was officially approved for disability so I do not have to worry about my ability to "do my job" anymore. It was decided for me. I am still having bad dreams, yelling out in my sleep, and waking my husband.

Today as I was basking in the sun on my roof, a voice said my name. It was a former colleague and friend. In fact, she was with me the weekend before my bleed. (My husband thinks the bleed started that weekend though because I came home complaining of a headache.) I went skiing with three friends. It was amazing. I had not been skiing for many years and I was worried about my endurance. It was not a problem. The other gals were quite athletic and snowboarded, so I skied alone. It was fantastic though. I felt very free and happy. At night, we watched The Departed over and over again. Every time we put it on two of my friends fell asleep so we kept trying to replay it. The love scene with Leo was so hot and I kept listening to that song. Only now as I think about the lyrics, "I have become comfortably numb," do I connect them to the numbness that crept down the left side of my body in the days following.

On the roof, I was struck by a wave of unpleasant memories. Everything about work and the last four years hit me and I was near tears. I worked closely with this woman for years. We both taught sixth grade math together. I went to many of her birthday parties. She came to my wedding (as did all of my former colleagues). She was never mean to me at work. She never stopped looking me in the eye or saying hello. Very early in my return to work, fatigued and overwhelmed, my emotions flooded and my tongue let loose hurtful words towards her. I accused her of not supporting my ideas in a meeting, undermining my authority as math chair, and being passive aggressive. She was so upset. I was shocked that I had made her cry. Her response was bewildering to me at the time. Was she really surprised by what I said? Of course, she was. Professional people do not say these things in the work place and I was no longer able to filter my thoughts, words, nor actions. She left the math department that years so I did not see her as much. I was filled with remorse in the year after my surgery. My lack of control swept through all aspects of my life like a tornado wreaking havoc and leaving waves of hurt and disbelief in its wake.

It turned out that my former colleague was friends with a woman who lives in my building. There are 345 apartments in my building so it is not that strange. They met through biking. She shared news from school and reported that the other two women from our ski trip both got married this past March in the same weekend. I did not know. I was not informed. I was not invited. We are no longer friends. I have little to offer and my actions are often baffling even to me. I am okay with that.

When I was ready to leave the roof, I got up the nerve to go over to her and say goodbye. I asked her about her life outside of school and she asked after my family. She said to keep in touch and gave me her email address. I cannot tell you how grateful I felt for the normalcy of the interaction. As I rose to leave, she too rose and extended her arms for a hug. It has been so long. After my brain injured actions of the past four years left everyone distrustful of me, I am filled with gratitude for anyone who gives me a second chance.

The benign indifference of cookies

So I baked some cookies this weekend. More than I should have, in retrospect. Monday I got this crazy idea in my head that I would send some to school for my former fifth grade class as a way to say goodbye. I attached a little note saying hi and I hoped the were doing well and how certain I was they were learning lots of math with their new teachers. I asked a good friend to send them to school. Big mistake. Now, as a result of my impulsive act and the school's refusal to accept the cookies and note, I have made people uncomfortable again. Worst of all my friend, with whom I had hoped to share a special day. Now, my presence is tainted with the stench of conflict and toxins of betrayal.

And all because of these stupid cookies. Look how innocently they smile up at you, mocking and shiny.

This is the one Tess got into.

Sly dog that she is, she hid it and waited for me to go to bed. She was sleeping on the couch and as soon as I turned off the lights and went into bed, she snuck off to eat it. I only caught her because she usually comes bounding into bed before my head hits the pillow. When she was quiet, I knew something was up. I never knew dogs could plan ahead. Well, at least somebody wanted my cookies, even if she couldn't have them. I am trying to take it in stride but I am deeply hurt at the rejection and being disinvited by my friend. I understand why but it still feels terrible.

I feel very alone and misunderstood right now. This too shall pass.

Education must change now!

This what I believe is so wrong with how we are learning and teaching the next generation. Come on people can we not fix this problem? Let's at least start with letting me teach enrichment math to children of all different ages who need it. I am good at it and not allowed to do it. There is something very wrong with this picture. It is enough to make you sick and sick it has made me. I am in the hospital and nobody can tell me what is wrong with me. I will tell you what I think. 

My heart is broken and my brain is bleeding in response.

What I am good at doing!

I am good at seeing the best in children.
I am good at brainstorming. I am good at drumming up excitement and enthusiasm for math.
I am good at making up ways to make learning fun.
I am great at teaching the advanced math students because their pace and interest determines the route.
I am good at learning ideas from books to try in my classroom.
I am good at advocating for students and parents.
I am good at writing, this list format blog entry not being a prime example.

"You know that I could be in love, with almost everyone. I think that people are the greatest fun."  song Alone Again.

Aly had an angioma which bled into her brain

And everywhere that Aly went she hid behind her pain.

I write here knowing that I am screaming at the top of my lungs from the top of the tallest building in the world but as in a dream no sound comes from my mouth. My consciousness stirs me from my slumber ever so slightly as a part of my sleeping mind asks why, why no sound, why can't I scream?


I had lunch with a wonderful woman from work. Her story is remarkable. There are so many amazing people out there. I never got to tell her that she was the reason I was hired. She understands the paralysis. The inability to move. The tears that come from nowhere and just will not stop. She lost her daughter. Her own cancer is in remission. She made time for me. She listened to my story, and I to hers. And now I want to live with my mommy so she is never alone. And I can cry and she can pat me and tell me it will be okay.

I work in isolation and fear. It should not be like this!!!

I thought it would just go back to the way it was before.

What a surprise! Things are so different. I am so different. I don't even know who I am anymore. Click on the title of this post to view my video 2 weeks after surgery.

Three Years Ago Tonight

I was worried I would never sleep and then oversleep. My surgery was in the morning. I watched South Park and in my drugged post-surgery state, two days later, it is all I remember talking about. Brian sat with me through the night and then Matt took over at 5 o'clock in the morning. I was in so much pain. And so thirsty. I know they had to make sure I was really okay before they gave me the strong stuff, but it was awful waiting. I somehow remember that they said there would not be a lot of pain after the surgery because the brain lacking nerve endings. That sounds absurd now. Did anyone really say that? Did I really think that? It's been three years and my head still hurts. They cut my ear off and through my jaw muscles. They pinned my head into a brace that twisted my neck muscles into a contorted mess. And then I cried two days later when I finally woke up and they gave me drugs and I told and retold the entire episode of South Park I had seen. It was the one where Stan's dad is on Wheel of Fortune.

So what is new with me? Work has been awesome. I finally got an assistant who does an awesome job and can stand being around me! He was my third assistant this year. At one point, one of my third-graders said "What's up with you? Your assistants are dropping like flies." I got into a Master's program in educational psychology. I am very worried about my ability to do this but... I amble on. One foot in front of the other. I am speaking about my dad at Centro this Wednesday. I am selling crafts at the Knitting Factory in Brooklyn again on May 1st. My grandmother turned 90. My daughter met her teen idol, Jimmy Fallon and he was the coolest. He told her they should work together. My sister is getting mad press for her new albums. I saw her on the CBS news this morning and she looked beautiful. I think I am starting to look older than she does. At least she doesn't look 50!

Good Sportsmanship!

That is the medal I always got in camp when I was a kid. It meant I was a spaz but I did not realize it and blindly followed the rules of whatever game we were playing. Thanks for playing kid! We needed one more on the bench.

I got RUNNER-UP for my hankie!

http://www.instructables.com/contest/mothersday09/

"In case you were wondering, judges from Singer selected the grand and first prize winners while the runners-up were decided by user votes. Sorry for the delay in the results, Maker Faire prep has overtaken us, but we wanted to make sure these results went out out (just) before the weekend. Thanks again for entering a great Instructable and we hope to see more good stuff from you in the future."

reads the email from the organizer of the contest which ended a week ago. I actually tried to conceal the fact that I already own a clearly superior Bernina sewing machine in my photos. When a packet of needles ended up in the background of a photo, I left it there thinking, a little "SINGER" product placement won't hurt. Ha! This was not in the rules. I was so mad when I got the results of the contest two years ago. This time I know what I am going to do. They are going to send me a little robot tshirt, their cute little mascot and I am going to wrap it around our dartboard and throw darts at it. Eventually, I will hit it too. Many people don't know this but I played darts in a league for about 8 years. That's how I met my husband. I played B division most of the time but The one year I played in the C division, I was the Ladies All Star and I won a plaque. I scored more points (4375) than the other 45 or so women in the division. Of course, in B and A the Ladies All Stars scored well over seven thousand but whatever. The men in B and C who win All-Star usually score over 10,000 points. You see where I am coming from?
Last year as the school year was ending, I asked one of my former students, a lovely girl who came by every day to help me out in the classroom, if she would write a letter on my behalf nominating me for some national teacher award. She did so gladly and even wrote me from camp telling me that her letter won an essay contest. I never heard from those people.
External validation! Why is it so important to me? Where will I truly find it? How is success measured? Here is what is not so high on my list of aspirations: fame, fortune, power. Here is what is: knowledge, wisdom, validation, understanding, comfort, freedom, creativity, and beauty (not personal although it was important until time took over and I realized it was merely a gift or perhaps, a loan from youth).
Yesterday, I decided to let someone else handle a big problem for me in exchange for a large sum of money. I felt relief to turn it over but still fear that I will continue to be misunderstood.
I am out of synch with my environment. I seek harmony!

Oh BTW look for my Moth Away! sachets on sale soon over at Etsy.com
Link to be posted soon.

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 a world! What a world!

I'm melting.

Walking home from conferences where most parents are happy to hear they have a great kid but some are fixated on HONORS MATH.

I stop at the supermarket and hear a father tell his much taller teen-aged son that he is selfish for choosing a $5 box of Fruity Pebbles not on sale, as the box glides by ostentatiously next to generic white bread, generic hot dogs, generic OJ, and generic cheese.

I feel unbearable sorrow. Yes, we all want to do a good job, to be liked, to not be selfish.

Inevitably, some of us fail.

The Yorkie Connection

Twenty years ago in my very first teaching job, I had the best mentor ever. She was a dynamo and she guided me the same way she taught. T. helped me become the teacher I am by setting a great example, letting me make mistakes, and allowing me develop my own style. When a class begins, I still say "Let me see who I can thank for being on the ball?" as I look around a group of students in varying states of readiness. Even though these are sixth graders and those were first graders, everybody wants to be noticed for the positive and they all get ready. I have so much I wish I could tell her. Today I saw a postcard she sent school with her beautiful twin boys and her two Yorkies. She has Yorkies! I can't believe it. I have her address so I think I will write to her. I came home and googled her so for now here is a link to an article about her.

T. and her school for living graciously

Thelma T. Hanawalt's business, called 'Mrs. T-s Tutorials,' offers lessons on manners and academic subjects.
Amazingly, just last year when one of our former first graders Melissa C. became my assistant because of the brain injury, I found a copy of T.'s "Signs of Civility" and hung it on my wall. I really try to be a nice person.


Here is my Yorkie Lily with me at one of my favorite places in the world , discussing my art with the rest of my class.