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Head Cases Micheal Paul Mason, Farrar, Straus and Giroux (page 3 of 6) Page 3 of 6

Once I’ve finished my evaluation of a brain injury survivor, after I’ve put my file back in my case and put away the pen, I often wait around until I sense they’re ready for me to leave. They’ll ask me about my job, comment that I look tired, invite me to stay for dinner, show me pictures, ask if I have any pictures of my baby. It’s the best part of my job. It’s in that space, away from the clinical microscope, that the damaged blossom. They will admit that they haven’t felt like their old selves, or they will confess, with a little shame, about how they never paid any attention to disabled people until now, and look at me, I can’t believe I am one of them. “I’m not me anymore,” one survivor told me, “but I’m still me.” I take those statements as an indication of deeper musings. Every so often a survivor, speaking to themselves more than to me, will ask the most spiritual question.

The most spiritual question in the world is not whether there is a god, or how we came to be in the universe. The most spiritual question in the world does not concern itself with knowing why there is suffering or why we are here; those ponderings stem from the most spiritual question. The aim of every mystical tradition in any religion is a sincere and relentless pursuit of the answer to the most spiritual question. The most spiritual question is about you. The question is: Who am I, really? Brain injury, above all other anguishes known to man, perpetually invites us to embark on the search for our selves. Who are we, other than our brains, really?

Different spiritual practices offer various methods for inner investigations, but few religious traditions are so doggedly concerned with the matter of self-discovery as Zen Buddhism. If a person is able to clearly realize their true nature, the thinking goes, then they will experience a freeness of being that acts as a boundless source of strength. One glimpse of your true nature is enough to dislodge former perceptions of your self, and you begin acting from your new understanding.

After the initial confrontation with their true selves, certain Zen students begin a rigorous curriculum of enlightenment that begins with the study of one of the world’s most enigmatic and profound sacred texts, The Gateless Gate.¹ Compiled in the thirteenth century by the Chinese monk Mumon, the writings contain dozens of koans, any one of which could take years for a Zen practitioner to complete. The koans are brief, sometimes irrational vignettes that relay encounters between monks and Zen masters. In the exchanges, some monks attain enlightenment, while others simply go on about their business. Any koan has the potential to trigger a direct experience of the sublime, a deeper realization of the self.

Beat culture popularized some of The Gateless Gate’s koans, such as “Does a dog have Buddha nature?” or “What is the Buddha? (answer: three pounds of flax).” Though they’re publicly received as absurd and ridiculous parables, to the Zen student koans are keys to unlocking truths not otherwise accessible. Taken individually, koans have a subversive effect on the rational mind; part of their power is in their ability to confuse and deflate any attempts at intellectualization. A Zen master might put his shoes  on his head, or simply advise a monk to wash his bowl. Viewed collectively, however, the koans yield other rich subtleties.

The Japanese phrase chinami ni, for example, appears in fourteen of the forty-eight koans. Contextually translated as “in all earnestness” or simply “earnestly,” the phrase describes the attitude of a monk who is seeking illumination. A monk will approach a teacher in all earnestness, a question will be posed earnestly, a gesture is conducted in all earnestness. As each koan encounter relays a moment ripe with the potential for enlightenment, the virtue of earnestness is regularly dealt a passing reference. Earnestness, the sacred text implies, is a prerequisite for revelation. Six months after the injury, Melissa arranged for her first neuropsychological evaluation. The testing took several hours to administer and consisted of the Halstead-Reitan neuropsychological battery, along with ancillary measures such as the Weschler scale, the Wide Range Achievement Test, the Peabody Individual Achievement Test, the Detroit Tests of Learning Aptitude, the Rey-Osterrieth Complex Figure Test, the California Verbal Learning Test, and the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory. The testing left her feeling depleted. At least she would finally have a solid idea about what kind of problems she was having, she thought. She could not have anticipated the actual results:

Lengthy or complex auditory/verbal information is assimilated with difficulty, with relatively greater decrements in recall demonstrated for this type of information after delay. Significant difficulty is demonstrated in the initial assimilation, processing, retention, and later recall of nonverbal information . . . A general slowness in the efficiency and processing of information is demonstrated by an individual who also encounters difficulty with more complex types of cognitive tasks . . . There is no doubt, however, that given this individual’s industrious and hard-driving style that compromised mentation and an inability to execute her normal occupational responsibilities and social obligations have tended to exert a profound and negative impact upon her psychological and emotional functioning at this time.

As Melissa flipped back and forth through the thirteen pages of the report, the words struck her like a litany of shortcomings. Even in areas she considered innate strengths, such as verbal ability and comprehension, she now appeared average or slow. She cringed at the psychological impact demonstrated in the findings, sensing that they were more accurate than she wanted to admit. The neuropsychologist had identified over a dozen general areas of cognitive impairment and detailed more than forty distinct impairments. In his report, he suggested follow-up appointments at the Organization for the Multi-Disabled, a crushing blow to a woman who so recently considered herself extraordinarily able. According to the conclusion on the report, there was no longer anything exceptional about Melissa Felteau.

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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Michael Paul Mason has served as an editor for two literary publications, and has appeared on several national media outlets, including the Lehrer Newshour, CBS News, and NPR's Morning Edition. His writings have appeared in several newspapers and magazines, including Discover, The New York Times, and The Believer. Mason remains active as a lecturer and speaker. Mason has also built a reputation for noteworthy journalism. When Mason's article, "Dead Men Walking", appeared in Discover magazine, it ignited a national debate about the treatment of brain injured soldiers. Mason has since traveled to Iraq to report on healthcare and humanitarian issues. Mason's first book, Head Cases: Stories of Brain Injury and Its Aftermath is an exploration into the harsh realities endured by brain injury survivors. While currently a brain injury projects manager at the Neurologic Rehabilitation Institute at Brookhaven Hospital, Mason continues to advocate on behalf of Americans with brain injury and is involved with several national legislative initiatives. He is currently the founding editor of This Land, a monthly magazine based in Tulsa. He is also at work on a non-fiction book called The Human Assembly: The Discovery, History, and Industry of our Parts, Tissues, and Organs.

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