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I Wanted My Brain Back Sherri Dalphonse, Washingtonian Magazine (page 4 of 6) Page 4 of 6

In Washington, being with old friends who were doing what Anne yearned to do—advancing careers and starting families—had been hard. “People couldn’t understand my injury,” Anne says. She had been spending more time with new people she met, people who had no expectations of her. But she had been isolated from others who had brain injury and issues like hers.

With her new support network, she could joke about her situation. On one summer outing, she and friends including Kathy, who has chronic fatigue syndrome, wore T-shirts with disability camp printed on the front. On the back: it’s no vacation.

Liz Joiner, a speech and cognitive therapist, helped Anne identify her deficits and learn to work around them. Anne couldn’t organize herself, so Joiner designed a threering binder that Anne calls her “brain.” In it, divided by colored tabs, are calendars and to-do lists. Writing something down means it’s more likely to get into memory.

Anne’s brain worked better when fed smaller bits of information, so Joiner retaught her tasks by breaking them down. Paying a bill might involve ten steps, including “get a pen.” While an undamaged brain thinks through the steps automatically, someone with brain injury needs cues. Eventually, the steps can become automatic again.

Memories of third grade flooded back to Anne as Joiner retaught her how to compose a paragraph. She encouraged Anne to write about her injury.

But Anne had a bigger goal: Get back to work, get back to economics.

Anne, who once did math in her head, would have to relearn it all.

Addition and subtraction came easily. One day, as she worked with Joiner, Anne realized she couldn’t divide or multiply. It would come back, Joiner assured her.

“It was difficult to come face to face with the idea of relearning second-grade math,” Anne says. “That was a big moment in realizing your life is different.”

Anne no longer possessed the analytical skills for her old job. She made mistakes. Math was no longer fun.

It was a moment of acceptance but not defeat. If she couldn’t immediately resume her old life, Anne was determined to find ways around the paths that were blocked.

Anne had to explain her limitations to her colleagues; before rehab, she either hadn’t recognized them or had hid them. As Anne began to write and talk about her injury, Slatin invited her to speak to a class he taught on accessibility issues.

After, Anne recalls John Slatin saying, “ ‘Your speech—you still think like an economist.’ It was like finding something precious I thought I had lost.”

At Four Years: First Dance

With help—Liz coached, while Michael set up equipment—Anne got back on a computer. At first Anne could sit in front of the screen for only ten minutes, but sending or reading an e-mail made her feel connected again.

Anne worked with physical therapist Ann Katz to improve her balance. In a session, she might fix her eyes on a target while walking or sit on an exercise ball with her eyes closed.

Anne was eager to manage her dizziness so she could get back to exercise; she had gained 30 pounds. Eventually she would work up to three-mile walks and kicking around a soccer ball.

For now, she had a more immediate goal. Anne and Michael had gotten engaged. While friends pitched in on planning the wedding and Michael handled details like the cake, Anne worked with Katz on how to dance without getting too dizzy.

Although marriages and relationships often fall apart after one partner suffers a brain injury, this one had survived.

Michael had been married once before. “Going through a divorce taught me to reevaluate myself in relationships. The communication in my first marriage wasn’t that good,” he says. “I saw a lot of things in Anne I really liked. In figuring out the injury with her, figuring out the rehab process with her, it helped me understand what she was going through.” They had to listen to each other and discuss their needs. It was the most fundamental communication, and it built an intimate bond.

In October 2001, Anne and Michael took to the dance floor as a band played the George Jones song “Walk Through This World With Me.” Anne focused her eyes on the horizon as the band sang, “Walk through this world with me, go where I go. Share all my dreams with me, I need you so.”

In 2002, Michael accepted a job at America Online, and he and Anne moved back to Washington. The challenge of a new routine caused her to backslide. Exhausted, she spent a lot of that summer watching Law & Order reruns. She had seen most of the episodes before and would entertain herself by trying to remember the plots.

Anne visited her old neurologist, who surprised her by recommending further rehab, at Inova Mount Vernon Hospital. Blue Cross Blue Shield agreed to pay as long as there was demonstrable improvement.

Rehabilitation for brain injury isn’t necessarily about getting back to normal; it’s about establishing a new normal. Life had gotten more manageable because Anne knew her limitations and compensated. She might shop online or make strategic strikes in stores. She listened to books on tape. If a restaurant menu was unfamiliar, she might order by randomly pointing.

Because she was rationing her energy—and because her cognition was improving—she could handle more tasks in a day. What she really wanted back was the ability to handle more than one thought in her head. She had trouble at stores and restaurants because of distractions like noise and movement. A healthy brain filters out what’s not important so you can focus; Anne’s doesn’t filter well.

At AOL’s Christmas party, Anne was startled to realize she was having a conversation in a noisy room. She hadn’t done that in years: “I was able to think about what I was saying, not just nod.”

Brighter Days

Problem-solving was still a challenge. In Austin, Anne once vacuumed the same carpet day after day, not understanding why it wasn’t coming clean. When Michael got home from a trip, he saw there was no bag in the machine.

From the Washingtonian Magazine. Reprinted with permission. Third-party use restricted. www.washingtonian.com.

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