Robin’s Joke Of The Day: A guy asks a girl: “Can You Tell Time?” And She Says: “Tell It What?”
I remember Miss McCarthy., my nasty (and very frustrated) 4th-grade English Teacher, demanding to know “just how your brain is working?” when I couldn’t understand her grammar lessons and expectations or spell a word right.
I’m glad she didn’t live to read my blog.
It would have finished her off. On the other hand, that might have been a good thing, sparing other children her notion of writing.
I’ve never thought much about how my brain works; it seemed a risky place to go, even in meditation. And it has always done what it is supposed to do until now.
This week brought a new experience: the most severe injury of my life and my first brain injury. So, we are getting to know one another differently, like it or not.
My brain is confused right now after I fell on a tile kitchen floor and ended up with bleeding in the brain.
I enjoyed the neurologists I met, they were a distinct set of geeks and serious people. Five of them came to see me over two days; none seemed to know any others had visited me or what they had to say.
The first was a young woman who was warm and optimistic. You’ll be fine, she said, at least after a while. All of them asked me to tell them what day it was, who was President, to reach my arms as high as they could go, to raise my feet up, wriggle my toes, what my birthday was, say my name, date of birth and the date that day.
They spoke grimly and rapidly, like cops on the British mysteries in the interrogation room, where the most vicious and crafty criminals break down in tears and confess after two or three loud and rapid fire questions from the detective.
In all the years I’ve watched British mysteries, I’ve never seen a murderer decide to shut up and call their lawyer before admitting the murder and then bursting into tears.
I passed each test quickly, except for the date. I’m a writer; I told the neurologists I don’t have to go anywhere or keep track of the day unless I have a doctor’s appointment.
My guess, I said, was it’s very close to the end of August; I’m a betting man, I’ll say August 28, I said. “One day off,” growled one young and very humorless doctor, looking successful – no smile. “Well,” I tried to joke, “I hope this doesn’t mean you will open up my head.”
I’m proud to say I knew who I was and where I was 100 percent of the time, and I even threw in Maria’s name for good measure to show how with it I am. I gave my birthdate out ten times an hour. How could I forget it?
The doctor looked at me curiously and said almost indignantly, “I don’t foresee any circumstance where we will be opening your head for this wound.” This was said in a kind of Miss McCarthy way. I half-expected him to ask how my brain was working, but he had read the scans, didn’t he know?
Maria and I were both relieved when he turned and walked out of my room, mostly because he told me in his charming way that I would be all right.
He was not particularly impressed by me, just like Miss McCarthy. And I can’t blame the Dyslexia. I was just not interesting to him; another old man falling on his head in the kitchen in his underpants with a bit of blood on his head. Ho-hum.
I was told it happens often.
Why, I wondered, then, all the testing? Maybe he was hoping for a few stumbles. I feared if I stumbled, I’d be rushed into surgery.
It’s strange, the brain thing now. In case you are new here, it was injured in my fall last Wednesday; there was some bleeding. Finally, I am officially a sore head.
“The brain gets annoyed when there is bleeding,” neurologist three told me, “it doesn’t like it at all and can get nasty.” I am used to having a sometimes dysfunctional brain, but I would hate to have a nasty or annoyed one.
Think of the blog; I could get even worse.
My brain is more confused than angry right now. It doesn’t quite know the familiar commands, which I took for granted, like when I wish to stand up, lie down, or go to the bathroom. It pauses or ignores me altogether.
At odd and unpredictable times, it seems to turn the world upside down or sideways on me for no apparent reason, and I have to be ready to grab something to avoid falling. Neurologist four, a young international student in training, suggested sternly that I not fail again.
He said it wouldn’t be good for my healing brain, which might get angry again. This neurologist was talking to me like I was back in the 4th grade, assuring me falling and hitting my head again wasn’t a good idea, as if I did it regularly or for fun.
It is no fun, I should say, not as much as outing some obnoxious troll on my website. I am eager to get back to my Mansion Meditation Class on Tuesday. Do I have a meditation idea for them?
Even I got the warning and was listening. So I haven’t fallen again.
But that’s only been two days.
When I stand up, I have to put my hands on Maria’s shoulders to steady myself for a minute or two, and then I can walk on my own. Unless I get dizzy, which can happen at any moment. I am told this will go on for a few weeks at least.
My smartass daughter (no surprise) tells me I’m going to have to learn to sit down and be quiet every time I blog or have something to say.
Maria will not always be in front of me with her strong shoulders. When I get wobbly in the head, I just repeat my name and birthdate address and wiggle my toes (one is missing).
Then I know I’m OK. Maria and my daughter have suggested that I don’t have the longest attention span in the world and must stay focused and pay attention.
And take it easy, they say. I have no idea what means.
The brain, Emma says, will need a rest.
I can dress myself with help.
But my dependable brain seems to have forgotten who he works for, and is confused about many of life’s ordinary commands and tasks. I’ll skip the details. I fell on my back and head, which is very sore and painful when I stand or sit down. I have to sleep downstairs in a soft reading chair, and after a few hours, getting up is agony.
(Maria was kind enough to water my flowers.)
Maria hasn’t reached the tipping point yet where she freaks about her art and rushes to her studio. That will come sometime this coming week. For now, she is sweet as a freshly baked apple pie; we love one another a lot. Nearly dying can do that for a relationship, I suspect. But I really wouldn’t know; I’ve never nearly died before that I know of.
I don’t recall going anywhere or seeing anything during my blackout. Perhaps something will come back to me.
I think my brain is a little miffed at me, though. Perhaps an apology is in order.
I fall asleep at odd times and throughout the day.
Before writing this, I slept for four hours. It took me ten minutes to stand up. I’ve got one of those pain patches on my back, but my rebellious brain (perhaps it is still also annoyed that I fell on him), is not impressed.
I also had visits from four cardiologists in the hospital, each with a different idea about what happened to me. My cardiologist checked in this morning on the phone and explained that the problem was a new medication that rejected some of the carbs I was eating.
Finally, we knew. And she wasn’t even there to make me wiggle my toes.
I’m brighter than in the 4th grade, but not by that much. I know this is a severe injury, and I take it seriously. The odd thing is that when I sit down to write, my brain is very much his old self, my fingers rushing, the words coming faster than I can write them, or my Dyslexic self can progress them. In this chair, writing, I feel no pain or confusion, I’m 25 years old.
It’s as if a Dybuk was awakened by the fall and stepped up and into my brain to handle my writing. Sorry, it is not impaired in any way beyond what it sometimes is naturally.
I’m suddenly exhausted, though, as in right now and the Dybuk is ordering me to get back in my chair and try to watch a mystery with Maria without falling asleep. So far, in the past few days, that hasn’t happened. Good night, thanks for listening, and I wish you a meaningful Labor Day.
I’ll be here in the morning, I promise. At least three people I know have asked Jesus to care for me. I am grateful for that. I trust him to do the right thing.
