Brain injury anniversaries are complicated. Every year, as the anniversary of my accident approaches, I feel the pull. Like an unseen gravitational force, my mind is drawn back to that day — the day my life changed forever. But this year feels different. My anniversary is still many months away… but thoughts of it are already creeping in at unexpected times. Unlike years past, this time feels heavier. I’m not just thinking of the day I was struck by a teenage driver. It feels like all the years since are playing like a movie in my mind. And this year is a big one — a power anniversary — a decade and a half living life with a brain injury.
There are many people who know my backstory and think that all is okay these days. After all, it’s been a very long time. “Just look at him — he works, he takes care of his home, he’s happily married. Looks pretty normal to me.” And while all of that is true, for many of us, brain injury is unseen. My disability is invisible, but that doesn’t make it any less impactful on my day-to-day life.
Lately, I’ve been feeling the weight of some pretty heavy losses — losses I thought I had come to accept. But things have a way of creeping back, sneaking out of the corners, and reminding me at unexpected times that this whole brain injury thing cost me a lot — a whole lot.
This past week, we had a couple of contractors at our home. As I age, I’m a little more inclined to have someone else handle the heavy lifting on home projects I might have tackled myself as a younger man. I’m trying to lean into aging with a brain injury as gracefully as I can. The two contractors — guys about my age — were straight shooters. We had several conversations over the last few days. I enjoyed their company and admired their work ethic.
Out of the blue, one of them mentioned not seeing his son in many years. “He walked out of my life as soon as the child support stopped,” he said, with a faraway stare. “I really miss him.”
“Me too,” chimed in the second pool guy. He hadn’t seen his kid in over a decade.
“Me too,” I said with a sigh.
They both looked at me, probably thinking I wasn’t in the same club. I opened up and shared that three of my four sons left my life many years ago — no explanation, just faded to black. It’s been almost fourteen years since I’ve seen my older boys. I didn’t mention my brain injury. I share that on a need-to-know basis, and there was no greater good to be gained by sharing it then.
The three of us stood quietly for a bit, each lost in our thoughts. The real tragedy? I am friends with many others in the brain injury community whose kids made the same choice. Several of my kids now have kids of their own — grandchildren I’ve never met. Every year that passes is unrecoverable. It’s just sad. I can only guess why decisions were made. Maybe my personality change was unsettling to some. Having no memory of my first year (or more) after my injury, perhaps I said something in my unfiltered state that was hurtful. With no communication, I am left only to guess, to wonder, and to come to grips with the loss. Sometimes, all over again.
Those who know me know that I am hard-wired for optimism. While that’s true, every coin has two sides, and I can’t ignore the truth. My hope today is multifaceted. I hope that someday there will be some type of reconciliation. I am not the person today that I was right after my injury. I only want the opportunity to prove it.
And my other hope is that perhaps someone else — someone I may never meet — will find familiarity in my sharing, and know that there truly are others who understand these kinds of losses. I’ll keep moving forward, living as best I can… and never let go of hope.