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A paradox is something that seems like there is no way that it could be true. Like the Combat Addiction paradox: I hate war, but I love combat. Both of those things are true, but they seem like they shouldn’t be.
Every year since my 2010 traumatic brain injury, I’ve taken the time to reflect back on changes that have come to pass during the prior year. This past year was no different, although what my reflection showed was not what some may call progress. Progress is not always measured with tangible facts.
Members of the medical community literally take their lives in their hands every day they go to work. It’s hard not to feel a bit humbled by that courage. My first face-to-face encounter with First Responders was just over a decade ago. In November of 2010 fate saw fit that most of the First Responders from our Main Street Fire Station and I would meet.
In just a few days, the ten year anniversary of my cycling accident will be here. I have come a long way since everything changed in 2010. But just because things are okay most of the time does not mean that my brain injury disappeared.
Living under the shadow of a global pandemic, protests, natural disasters, and a contentious political landscape means our lives are full of stress and anxiety. While all of this weighs heavily on most anyone, it is those of us within the brain injury community that pay a higher premium.
I have been living as a brain injury survivor for almost a decade. Today I am sitting in my office, a busy day of work ahead of me. Never one to miss deadlines, I blocked off some time to let you know how I’m doing — how I am REALLY doing.
Taylor’s pickup truck represented Taylor’s work ethic, his expression of masculinity, his love for country music, and a space of fun memories and experiences. Perhaps most glaringly, it represented something Taylor feels he has lost — his freedom. The decision to sell it came after another night of seizures.
From all aspects of the pandemic, societal as well as scientific, we are still only months into learning the full scope of life after COVID-19. But I have a feeling that some people may be dealing with cognitive challenges for the rest of their lives.
In times of great distress, I sometimes forget that I am not alone in my struggles. I thought it might be helpful to hear from others in our community. I checked in with some caregivers and survivors, and here is what they had to say.
COVID-19 has left many caregivers struggling with the emotional pressures of isolation. Nicole remembers a pivotal conversation about the inevitability of change and offers some advice on ways to find some comfort and calm in these difficult times.
The pandemic has changed the daily lives of everyone. How we work, how we shop, and how we interact with each other are all shifting. Comparing life as it is now with how it used to be can lead to sadness or despair and what's called "ambiguous loss."
What an awful, scary, and painful time it has been. I’ve wondered what (if anything) I should share. Some things seem so small now, and others so big...In this time of uncertainty it is important to tap into things that have previously helped you, and remind yourself of the goodness within you and around you.
My blog is titled Permission to Tell the Truth in an effort of honoring my feelings, not denying them. The actual act of truth telling is challenging. It hurts. Here we’ve established a relationship of trusting support. I’d like your continued permission to be open and real.
When I was struck by a teenage driver back in 2010, I sustained a traumatic brain injury. In addition to my TBI, four new letters became forever intertwined with my brain injury: PTSD. Over the years, PTSD has proven to be harder to live with than a brain injury.
My brain injury journey has come with many unexpected twists and turns, making it an experience that is truly stranger than fiction. Many of the changes that came to pass after my brain injury were incredibly painful and life-changing. But not all the changes were difficult. Some were – dare I say – simply wonderful.
While my thoughts should have been carefree during our summer vacation at our favorite North Carolina beach, each day as I took in the vastness of the ocean, I was reminded of the far reaches of traumatic brain injury (TBI) and grief.
My name is Nicole Bingaman. I am a mother to three sons, all in their twenties. Our oldest son, Taylor, suffered a catastrophic brain injury seven years ago. There are some hard truths I’ve discovered about myself over the years. Please know some of them require great courage to share with you.