"The Strangest of Days" or "How a Traumatic Brain Incident Altered My Life Inexorably"

A week ago, I wrote about my week during which I had hopped off my meds due to drug interaction concerns, and I feel inspired to share my journey from a (relatively) stable and fully functional brain to the head of bizarre wiring that I have now.

This trip involves a bit of personal history here, and that's not always something I like to share. But seeing as I have shared that I am on meds, spoken of my IT experiences, my investment in nerd culture, and that I am a seminarian, I think this is just the nudge that I need to share this story. And seeing as it has been 5 years, almost to the day (February 9) since the Traumatic Brain Incident occurred, maybe now is a great time to talk about it.

I used to have a near-eidetic memory. When I was a teacher, I would have my roster memorized - every students' first name, last name, middle initial, and the last name of the parent or guardian with which they lived. When I was in high school as a member of the marching band, I had everything memorized within days of receiving it - music and drill.

It wasn't perfect, mind you. As I said, near-eidetic, so not quite perfect recall. Even still, I had to learn how to synthesize information and process things, to move on from concrete operational thinking to abstract analysis. I really enjoyed having that ability, it was a gift, and it certainly made synthesis and analysis far easier when I did not have to flip between pages and books. I also know that it could and would drive my ex-girlfriends nuts. It was easy to win arguments when I could recall almost everything that they said or did. It also made it extremely easy for me to shop for them for birthdays, holidays, anniversaries…

I used to also possess an acute awareness of the passage of time. I rarely needed a watch, and often when asked what time it was, I was close — within 5 minutes of the actual time. I could easily and readily judge how much time it took for me to perform a task, taking into account variables such as access to the space, who else was on the team, and what the task itself involved.

Let’s set the time circuits in our DeLorean back to 2014. While we should be looking at flying cars, rehydrating pizza, hoverboards, and we are 20 months shy of the arrival of certain time travelers from 1985.

At this point, I was still employed by the school district in IT. One of my siblings was a new parent, and I wanted go visit the baby, so I had plans to drive on up at the end of my day (please note: I am being vague on certain details, as my sibling in question is a bit private when it comes to personal matters, especially with regards to offspring). That was a Friday, February 7th. The night before, I had been at the church for an Adoration and Benediction Holy Hour, and as I was the Deacon’s assistant, I went a bit crazy with the incense. For those readers who are not Catholic, I’ll give you the short-short version: lots of quiet prayer, lots of incense, some prayer out loud, and a big blessing. I had a tickle in my throat, and I figured it was just from the incense, so I ignored it.

Friday rolls around, and I am feeling pretty good. There were some technical issues going about the cyber world, and Windows was getting banged around, as per usual. I was also facing the typical issues that crossed my desk on a regular basis

• SMART Board issues
• Projector bulbs blowing out
• Screen duplication issues for multiple displays
• System failures

Most of the equipment in the district was nearing the end of its operational life. NJ Department of Education has a rule or a law regarding technology, and it basically says that upgrades have to happen every 5 years. Part of what helped me to get the job was that I have a particular gift for keeping hardware going, even when it is old. I was not tapping into the reservoir by any stretch, although I was growing in my innovation and inspired methodologies.

In the course of the week leading up to this particular Friday, I had literally touched almost every single keyboard in all 3 of the buildings to which I had been assigned. I’ll spare you the math on it, but suffice to say that it was, at extreme minimum, 192 keyboards. Keyboards that had been used by students, who were walking incubators. Children who were being sent to school when sick - either because parents were too lazy to want to deal with their children, or some parents who were beleaguered by idiotic supervisors; that second group was forced to send their sick kids to school and go to work, only to receive a phone call from the school nurse saying that the kid had to be picked up, and “Oh, sorry, boss, I have to go pick up my kid. Going home, have a good day!” And why does that happen? Because parents are not allowed to call out for sick children, but by law they have to be released from work to take care of sick children when they are called at work.

I was starting to feel sluggish come the early afternoon. I planned on taking my lunch at the end of the day — I had no fixed or set time for it — and I was going to head out immediately afterwards to head to see my sibling and the baby. I thought my sluggishness was due to hunger, or just plain pushing myself. Knowing that I was going to see a newborn, I decided to visit the nurse in one of my buildings. She puts the thermometer in my ear (you know, one of those electronic ones)

And our conversation went as follows, more or less.
Nurse: Any good plans for the weekend?
Me: Yeah, gonna go see my sibling and the new baby!
Nurse: Oh, that sounds like it would’ve been fun.
Me: Come again?
Nurse (showing me the thermometer): You have a temperature. You’re not going near any babies. In fact, you need to go home.
Me: I have 45 minutes to work and an hour for lunch. If I go home, the boss will charge me half of a sick day. For 45 minutes. What if I hid in my office and did paperwork?
Nurse: No contact with a single person, and that will work. Now go, hide!

So I hid. I went to the unused classroom that I had adopted as my satellite office, since my regular office was an unused classroom in another building. I did my paperwork, called my sibling to cancel the visit, waited out my lunch, and went home.

The trip home was less than fun. I got myself and my stuff up the stairs of my apartment. My routine of unpacking my lunch cooler and all that felt like it took forever. I shucked my clothes, pulled on some pjs, and fell asleep on the couch.

I awoke drenched in sweat, somewhat hungry, and feeling dizzy as anything. I also knew that I had to get some food together for my roommate — he was basically helpless in that regard, and he pooped in a box as well. But he was loyal and kind.

So I fed Mitchell, I fed myself some chicken noodle soup, and I went to bed.
And I slept all night, all day Saturday. Not straight through, mind you. I managed to wake up now and then, and I made a playlist of movies and set it to go. Mitchell barely left my side, and I dragged myself up to get him food. He really only left my side to eat and to use his litter box, but then curled up next to me. I was new pet owner, and I had certainly never been a cat person before, so I came to understand that his behavior was born out of love and the fact that I was dying.

Sunday (February 9th) morning comes, and I drag myself up. Feed the cat. I’m soaked in sweat, head to toe, and I know that I am in big trouble. I take a cold shower, hoping that it cools me off. The counter in my bathroom was in easy reach, and I had placed my phone on there with some music — something to keep me conscious of the passage of time. I knew that it took me about 45 minutes from the moment that I stopped the water until I managed to step out of the tub. Good thing I had the phone nearby — I called my family. One of my siblings was still living at home, and was quite the night owl, and answered the phone. I said that I needed to go to the hospital, and my sibling hustled to get to me. Half an hour later, I had a bag packed with things that I would need — wallet, phone and charger, glasses case, and a book to get me through the wait in the ER.

What I didn’t expect was, as I was dropped off and the car was being parked, was the series of events that followed:

• The line for admittance was moving kind of swiftly.
• By the time my sibling joined me, there were 3 check-in sections at the counter.
• There was one person in line in front of me.
• I was wicked dizzy.

As I wobbled, my sibling asked me if I wanted a chair. I said, “Nope. Don’t bother.” And then I was down — on my knees and then on my face.

No exaggeration. I have been close to dying once or twice. I know what my body is capable of doing, what its limits are, and how far I can push myself at a given point. I’m a trained martial artist, and I have to be exceptionally aware of what I can and cannot do. I’ve spent a lifetime up to that point knowing what was happening — it helped me to nip illnesses in the bud, or to compensate for when I was injured. This one snuck up on me, but I had enough awareness to know that I was in pain systemically, and I could feel that I was losing the battle.

Unfortunately, the hospital was more concerned with liability — what if I died during the scan while under anesthesia, what if it was a cardiac issue? I told them to bring a waiver and I would sign it — if I was going to die anyway, I was going to die but at least then my family would have answers. Instead, they managed to stabilize me, which must have been through Divine Intervention, because they had no idea what they were doing. But more on that later… I was completely unaware of how much time passed between them getting me into a room, scheduling my EKG, performing my EKG, and then getting a cardiologist to read it and clear me for anesthesia.

Monday (February 10th) comes around, and I am not even sure what is taking place. My head is fuzzy in a way that I have never experienced before, even when drunk. They bring me food, but I can barely eat it; it hurts to eat. And I’m a guy who has stitched his own wounds. I can handle my fair share of pain and more so, but this really hurt. My sleep was irregular, and I could barely keep my eyes open at times. That night, I woke up with some massive heartburn. I’ve had ulcers before, and I know what the pain of reflux is, so I ask for an antacid. The duty nurse comes in — she’s an Eastern European woman, older than I am by 15 years at least, and she is tough. She has a pill for me, and I just start crying.

Note: I am not a cryer. I don’t tend to cry often, and most certainly not for myself. Not that I am macho — but tears don’t tend to flow. But I am already hurting, and I am terrified at the prospect of putting anything down my throat. Our conversation went as follows.

Duty Nurse: You are grown man. Why you cry?
Me (gathering myself for a moment): Picture a bowl full of glass shards and nails. Someone hands you a spoon and tells you to go to town on that bad boy. And then you have to wash it down with a gallon of lava. That’s what water feels like going down my esophagus. Isn’t there an IV something…?
Nurse (nodding): OK. I will come back. I promise.

She leaves, and I zone out. Being that it is the middle of the night, I was sick and exhausted, that didn’t worry me too much at the moment. She comes back with a needle that she puts into the shunt, and there is a nearly-instantaneous relief from the reflux. And so I slept.

It is Tuesday (February 11th) and I am scheduled for a scoping. My doctor is a Russian lady — exceptionally good physician, but she clearly did not get my humor when I said, “If you’re only using a single scope to check out my insides, could you go ‘down’ first and then ‘up’? And if you’re using two scopes, can I see a video of them meeting at my duodenum?” Nevertheless, they doped me and put me under. I came around, got wheeled back to my room, and that was that.

Wednesday (February 12th) came around, and breakfast is all liquid. They also gave me lidocaine to drink before I consumed anything. It tasted horrible. But it numbed my throat enough for me to be able to drink my breakfast. Russian gastroenterologist came in, and she was all business. Once she saw that my eyes were glazing over when it came to certain medical terms, she gave me the business straight: “The inside of your esophagus looks like Freddy Krueger’s face.”

Well, then. That’s never good.
She placed me on a liquid diet and authorized my release for the next day, February 13th. Wednesday was uneventful.

Thursday, however, was a whole ‘nother ball game… As I am packing up and getting picked up, my Godmother’s husband died of stage 4 lung cancer. A cancer survivor for 30 years or so, Uncle Mark had beaten leukemia at 18 or so. Unfortunately, his time was borrowed, and it took those bastard tumors 3 decades to find him again. That was a particularly tough day. The schools were closed for Presidents’ Day weekend, and the funeral was scheduled for Tuesday. I took Wednesday off as well, since I was given two days for bereavement for an uncle.

The funeral was tough. I had no energy. I realized that I actually fit into my suit that my parents had given me upon graduating from high school — 15 years prior. I had gained some weight in the years leading up to 2014, and I had also gone on a campaign to lose some weight, and brought myself down to a healthy 150-155 lbs. After my sojourn in the hospital, I was down to 130-135 lbs. My suit was wearing me. I remember very little from the funeral except for sitting in the back of the funeral parlor next to my Gpa (yes, the one who fired me as being his computer tech, as seen in https://steemit.com/computers/@phoenix32/the-traumas-of-a-former-it-professional Tale #1). He in his wheelchair, I in a regular chair, each of our suits wearing us, both of us borderline emaciated and slumped over. I managed to have the energy to serve at the altar at the funeral Mass, and I remember that Uncle Mark’s parents came over and thanked me profusely for helping to honor their son, especially since I had been so violently ill.

Back to work, and I am weak. Thin. Pale. Very little strength. Constantly colder than I had ever felt in the middle of winter. I would end my days exhausted, and being on a liquid diet was the exact opposite of fun. I would wake up early to take meds on an empty stomach, snooze for a bit, wake up and drink some breakfast, get out to work. Saturdays were relaxing, at least, since I had nowhere to go. But I sat around and did next to nothing, as I was routinely exhausted. Sundays were bad — I sometimes missed Mass due to medication and eating schedules and sleeping in between.

The introduction of solid food went well, thankfully. I eventually came back to my pre-illness weight, and I was feeling OK, although I was still feeling sluggish. That’s when I realized that I had a problem. I did the insurance thing and found a “provider” who took my insurance. I went to a therapist so that I could discuss the issues that I was facing — it was a smart thing to do, as I had just undergone a trauma. After several sessions, the counselor gave me my chart at my request. I went to my parents’ house and spoke with my mother, showing her my chart. She quickly grabbed hers and did a comparison — I read like a stroke victim. I had lost my short-term recall, and my near-eidetic memory as a result, word association, name and face recognition and association, my thinking was far slower than it had ever been, and my ability to focus seemed to be gone. It took me quite a while to realize this, and even more time to realize that I had lost some of the psychological tools that I had acquired over time; for instance, how I would deal with fear in the immediate circumstances was something that I literally could not recall how to do.

I had panic attacks for the first time in my life. I actually found myself almost paralyzed with fear, which was brand new to me. I had not been so paralyzed ever before in my entire life. I found that going to the supermarket was a monumental task — crowds bothered me, the chaos of the people milling about almost like lurking zombies in a seemingly endless meandering, and the fact that I needed a gorram list to make sure that I got everything that I needed (due to my broken memory). That was frustrating as well, and my frustrations compounded upon themselves, as I was ill-equipped to deal with the mundane tasks and my inability to think and even exist as I once had done with such great ease was no longer something that I could even figure out how to do.

And thus I began Cognitive Behavioral Therapy.

It was a battle. I was different, and the only time that I found solace was when I could actually feel like I used to feel — martial arts training. Sword in hand, natural movements that I had done for 25 years, and techniques that were more than second nature to me all allowed me to have the clarity of mind that I was struggling to find outside of training. The only problem: I only had that clarity with regards to martial arts itself. Nothing more. I had also managed to retain my IT skills, which helped me tremendously at work, since I was having difficulty focusing.

Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) was something else. I was faced with the reality that I was no longer the same person that I had once been. I had to relearn how to accomplish tasks that had been so simple. The new experience of the panic attacks was troublesome as well. It was determined by medical professionals who were actually competent that I read like a stroke victim. So they treated me in the same manner that they would a stroke victim — time to relearn and repeat, practice and repetition. I resisted the idea of medication, mostly due to an anger that bordered on rage when I attempted to do anything the way that I used to be able to do, and found myself failing. Granted, that might seem like a harsh statement, but I would hope that it conveys the state of mind that I was in.

In my post (and subsequent comment-based conversations) from https://steemit.com/mental-health/@phoenix32/strange-days-or-my-week-without-my-meds, I used the analogy of brain damage to amputation. I was in the beginning stages of grief at this point, mourning the person that I had been, unsure of the person I was currently, and without any indication of the person I was going to be. And for those who have not been in that situation, let me tell you that it is a truly terrible, horrible, and nasty place to be. I had been amputated, cut off from myself. I also felt like one of the existential hippy-types from the 60’s, since now i had to go and “find myself” and “discover the person I am.”

Blech.

Evidently, that added to my frustrations. I was relearning how to function, but I was still barely treading water. My apartment got messy and chaotic — although never, ever filthy. I managed to learn what techniques that I needed to calm myself or even avoid panic attacks, but I had difficulty in executing them. I learned to make lists, to itemize and organize differently, and that I could still analyze and synthesize information, but I was still frustrated with my inability to store information in the short-term. I was able to utilize my long-term memory as well as ever, but I could not remember the names and faces of new staff members at work. I had gone from frustrated to angry and I could see depression approaching. I knew that I had to preempt it, so I made the decision to stop resisting the notion of medication.

Of course, the first thing they suggest is an antidepressant. Thankfully, I had enough presence of mind not to overreact, and I allowed for their explanation to come. The specific parts of my brain and the neurochemical balance that had been inexorably altered would benefit from some of the same medications used to treat depression. Having a degree in Psychology, I was familiar with some of the meds, such as Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors (SSRIs), Monoamine Oxidase Inhibitors (MAOIs), and Norepinephrine–dopamine reuptake inhibitor (NDRIs). I knew that it was the right move for me.

Five years after the Traumatic Brain Incident (TBI), and three years since using meds, I can say with all honesty that while I no longer function as the person I had been, I know the person that I am now and he isn’t all that bad. I stopped viewing myself as “a pale shadow” of the person I had been, and that perspective has made all of the difference. I wasn’t able to see it at first, due to the grieving process and the actual damage to my brain.

And that is my story.