Head Cases Micheal Paul Mason, Farrar, Straus and Giroux (page 2 of 6) Page 2 of 6

A CAT scan returns inconclusive, so the neurologist delivers a vague but distressing diagnosis: postconcussive syndrome (PCS). Some of the most tragic cases I have seen  resulted from a PCS. Because a person can move about and consciously respond, they’re presumed to be well when they’re far from it. The adverse symptoms snowball over a course of days. In the impact, Melissa’s position in the vehicle made her prone to a concentration of forces that shook, turned, and rattled her brain, causing widespread disruptions on microscopic levels. Detailed scans a year later will  reveal that Melissa’s brain was riddled with focal defects,  pockets of arbitrarily traumatized tissue encapsulated within healthy brain. Sheering injuries in her occipital lobe disrupted key functioning in her visual cortex; diffuse axonal injuries severed untold neuronal connections within the right frontal lobe, compromising her self-regulation. Cellular injuries to her parietal lobe interrupted the normal processing of sensory input. The microscopic defects elude the CAT scan, however, and consequently the neurologist. He writes down his diagnosis and offers no follow-up care, not even the hint that she should keep an eye out for any life changes.

Prior to the accident, Melissa Felteau was a paragon of modern womanhood, the embodiment of every contemporary virtue.

“I was a real catch,” she says, giggling a little at her own cheekiness. “A healthy northern girl.”

As a master swimmer, she outpaced men twice her size; on cross-country skis, she sailed past teenagers; and in whitewater kayaking, nobody could rival her quick rolls. Yet her athletic skills were the least of her talents. Throughout her education, high marks filled her transcript with only minimal effort. She won awards as a writer, she earned applause as a quick-witted public speaker, and she was being singled out for the chair of an international business association. Ambition filled her veins, self-reliance and independence exuded from her smile. Of course the guys lined up; she had sixty-five flower arrangements to take home  after her hospital stay.

Melissa brought the same aggressive, competitive energy she used in sports to the boardroom table. As director of public relations for Lakehead Psychiatric Hospital, Melissa’s vivacious appeal mirrored the image the hospital wanted to present to the surrounding community. She turbocharged the organization with new, socially minded initiatives, such as the provincial mental health strategy. Doctors turned shy in her presence and coworkers gossiped about her availability. In every instance, she exemplified the exceptional. At just thirty-one years of age, Melissa Felteau felt the adoration and envy of the world around her. And she enjoyed it, perhaps a little too much.

The truth of her postinjury life unveiled itself in the most casual heartbreaks. Each day served up a reminder of skills she had lost. At first, her sisters commented that she sounded strange on the telephone, when, in fact, she had developed a stutter. After Melissa returned home under her parents’ care, she moved about as though sedated, even after the pain medications wore off. She couldn’t shake the slumber. Her vision was plagued with floaters. Coffee mugs and books fumbled from her uncoordinated fingers. She tumbled from table to bed to sofa and back again. After days of tripping over herself, she realized that she couldn’t seem to regain her balance.

Canada’s healthcare system allotted for an unhurried two months’ convalescence, an interminable period of rest for Melissa. She yearned to return to work, to get back on track with her life. She ignored any cautions from doctors and family as unhealthy pessimism, hardly noticing that fewer friends were calling or visiting. The first day at work, however, was a distressing confrontation with reality. At first, she could not figure out which of her keys opened her office. They all looked the same to her. She then tried to read a memo on her desk and found that she couldn’t understand a simple paragraph. The hum of her computer drove her crazy, and the ringing in her ears wouldn’t go away. When she attempted to visit coworkers, she lost herself in the once familiar hallways. After she found the right department, she couldn’t remember the name of the person she intended to visit.

“Names are very important to me,” she says. “You can imagine how embarrassing it was for me to be the public relations director and not remember names.”

Melissa endured two weeks of work before she requested a vacation. The additional time off didn’t do the trick. When Melissa resumed her job, she once more attempted to pick up the rhythm she had sustained for the previous six years. A presentation that normally would have taken her an afternoon or two required all of her focus for weeks. Without realizing that her executive functioning was impaired, she struggled with duties involving multitasking, decision making, and organizing. There were awkward moments when she cried at the slightest provocation or snapped at her assistant. She had once excelled at complicated managerial tasks; now the most menial chore, such as writing a complete sentence, proved a challenge.

“I was overwhelmed,” Melissa confesses. “I was having major problems and didn’t want people to think I was stupid, so I stopped hanging around people from work.”

Social engagements became opportunities for embarrassment and ridicule, causing Melissa terrible personal conflicts. She wanted to be out among the crowds, but simultaneously felt vulnerable and frightened by them. Melissa sank into long sulks and quiet withdrawals. The invitations stopped coming and the phone rarely rang. Of the sixty-five well-wishers, only one person remained a friend.

Melissa exchanged dates with doctors for appointments with doctors. On a visit to one doctor’s office for her pain issues, she happened across some literature on brain injury that had been left in the lobby. The brochure listed the wide-ranging side effects of brain injury: mood lability, agitation, poor attention, memory problems, coordination difficulties, and disorientation.

“I saw it and realized, ‘Oh my god, this is what I’ve got,’” she says.

From Head Cases by Michael Paul Mason, published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC. Copyright © 2008 by Michael Paul Mason. All rights reserved. To view or the book, go to www.amazon.com. For more information about author and brain injury case manager Michael Paul Mason, go to www.michaelpaulmason.com.

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