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Todd Ewen, a former professional hockey player, took his own life in 2015. Before his death, he confided in his wife, Kelli, that he feared he may have chronic traumatic encephalopathy, or CTE.
If you were to look into the windows in our house of life, we would appear to be a “normal” family, but the reality is, we don’t feel normal. Most days are spent figuring out what will help Kyle on that day; how can that brain of his be calmed.
Hope—love—tenacity—go for it—get mad, let yourself be sad—but don’t let the madness or sadness swallow you. These were repeated themes, said in a thousand ways for a thousand reasons. These are the messages we need to hear again and again.
It is impossible to deny that my husband is now a stranger. Despite everything we learned at the hospital, I don’t know how much to help TC and how much to get out of his way. Every morning, I wake up still a little bit shocked that doctors let me take him home at all. Who am I to be trusted with something so fragile?
We admit, despite celebrating Steven’s recovery, we did fall into the dismal comparison trap. "Why is Steven’s rehab roommate already walking?" "His accident was as severe as Steven’s; how did he escape a craniectomy and the helmet?" "How did she escape the epilepsy curse?"
The consequences of mild traumatic brain injury turn worlds upside down. Headache, double vision, and balance difficulties are the most obvious problems, but less visible symptoms can be the most insidious and difficult to manage.
Hope is complicated. It represents believing something can improve, despite the current state of circumstances. It also means having the courage to believe when things appear hopeless. I have become well acquainted with the infinite value of hope, but also the tightrope on which it teeters.
Caregiving is hard. The lack of support for adults with brain injury (in our area) is ridiculous. I find myself wanting to scream when people ask, "Don't they have services for that?”
Some may question the morality of lying. As I moved deeper into my new role as a caregiver, I reached out to learn as much as I could about caring for someone with mom’s type of brain injury. My mistruths are categorized as Therapeutic Lying.
It’s been six and a half years since I began this brain injury journey. Or, to compute, 2,372 days, 56,928 hours, 3,415,680 minutes. As I think back, I take pride in each of those days (the bad ones included), remembering too vividly a time in which I was convinced we couldn’t make it at all.
Zac Easter knew what was happening to him. So he decided to write it all down—to let the world know what football had done to him, what he’d done to his body and his brain for the game he loved. And then he shot himself.
This book packs a lot of wisdom. You’ll learn about aphasia; you’ll understand ambiguous loss; you’ll follow Abby down dark hallways and into sunlit rooms and learn what it means to own a life built on raw truth.
The emotional equivalent of being caught in the undertow came earlier this week. I was scrolling through old photos, reconnecting to moments captured in time. I found my mind trapped in the tumultuous waters of ambiguous grief, fighting my way to the surface.
I don’t often write about my teen kids. But in this case, I want to share something. I need to, because coming full circle means that I get to let go a little of this job of informing our kids what happened to their wonderful father.
Life inside the bubble of brain injury is a roller coaster. In our bubble, the daytime is generally good. Nighttime brings the opposite. Each evening, Taylor's post-injury thought process evolves into a profound sense of sadness, frustration, and defeat. It is hell to witness.
Your child was seen today for a concussion. Use this article to help you watch for changes in how your child is feeling or acting, and to help your child feel better.
It’s time for a broader, braver dialogue around gender and caregiving. It’s time to start talking about the transformation in identity that occurs when one spouse adopts the role of the other. It’s time to recognize that caregiving is a role that requires the revision of gender norms and the acceptance of power transfers.
After my son was diagnosed with a severe brain injury, despite the shock, I remember hearing Steven’s healthcare providers repeating the word caregiver, over and over, as if they were determined to make me, of all unqualified people, claim the title. I felt an urgency to scream that nowhere on my resume indicated that I was qualified to take care of a severely, brain injured son.
In learning how to manage the small, we become better equipped to manage the large. A well-rounded caregiver doesn’t just come into being because a trauma occurred. Becoming is a process, a transformation.
Kara was growing up and thinking about the future. She would tell us, "I want my own life. I want my own house when I grow up." So I began going to conferences that focused on people with disabilities and became intrigued with technology. As Kara grew into young adulthood, technology became the key that would open the door to her independent life.