The Effects of Head Injuries Come
in 'Rippling Proportions'
A Spouse's Perspective
Boulder Freewheeler, Fall, 1988
Summary: This article is still the most personal and most poignant account we have seen on living with the
aftermath of traumatic brain injury.
\ As a mode of transportation, the bicycle is a remarkably simple and satisfying machine. In fact, bicycling is so
addictively pleasant an undertaking that it is synonymous with fun, exercise and good times.
But head injuries on a bicycle are not fun. It is very serious stuff, and the challenge to an individual to find his way
again is enormous. The challenge handed to that individual's family and friends is equally large.
My husband, "Jim," was thirty-eight years old when his bicycle was hit by a pickup truck on the outskirts of
Boulder. He landed directly on his head, fractured his skull, survived two emergency brain surgeries, spent nineteen
anxious days in intensive care, six weeks in a coma, and four long months in Boulder Memorial Hospital's rehabilitative
unit. Almost two years post-injury, Jim lives at home and continues treatment as an outpatient. He goes to
"work" three days a week. He is unable to drive a car and he struggles to read and to write. His speech, his
gait, his memory, his judgement, his confidence, his competence have all been affected. Jim was not wearing a bicycle
helmet.
Those are the facts. Jim, obviously, has his own story to tell and, given the magnitude of his injury, there can be no
question that he has come a long way. It is to his great credit (and to the credit of some very special therapists) that
he has managed much of it with some humor and some decency. This article, however, is a spouse's story and a request to
consider the merits of wearing a bicycle helmet. It is an emotional plea to anyone who loves riding a bicycle. When you
don't wear a helmet, you are at so much greater risk for a head injury, and a head injury is a loss of rippling
proportions.
These days the word "head injury" appears all too frequently in the news. Due to advances in medical
technology, more and more people survive. But the journey from "survival" to "recovery" is an arduous
and an elusive one.
Unfortunately, other than stabilizing the brain post-trauma, very little can be done to "fix" the damaged
areas. Damage occurs not only at the point of impact, but also with the extensive nerve shearing that takes place
elsewhere in the brain. Intensive therapy, balanced by a lot of rest, encourages the brain to stay stimulated in hopes
that new nerve pathways can be rebuilt or rerouted. Just as each head trauma is different, so is each outcome different.
While some people end up in nursing homes, others make substantial progress. All head injuries require struggle. The
heroics of everyone involved from victim to family to friends to therapists to nurses to doctors boggle the mind and the
pocketbook and the emotions.
The brain is an extraordinary organ. It is so complex that it still defies understanding, yet it is vital to determining
"who" we were, "who" we are, and "who" we shall be.
Tripped up by a serious head injury, a "new Jim" is evolving. While the outside is endearingly familiar, the
inside is suddenly changed. His whole being is forced to focus on retrieval: bits of memories, pieces of intellect,
scraps of emotion. Things that were a given, now demand huge effort and thought. Jim was easily so much: a good
architect, a sensitive father, an exceptional friend, a lovely thinker. Now he struggles in all those pursuits. As his
spouse, I miss terribly the sophistication of his person. I miss the partner in our marriage, the promise of our dreams,
the male balance for our three children.
The dilemma for me personally is that I both have a husband and don't have one. There exists a vacancy and a burden. The
position requires equal energy to the scenario of being single: parenting three small children, keeping life
"normal," coping with decisions; and equal energy to the scenario of being the spouse of a head injured adult.
The latter means: dealing with doctors who measure up medically, but are seriously lacking in compassion; encouraging
Jim's parents to exchange denial for involvement; doing extensive battle with insurance companies who understand little
of head injury other than it is monstrously expensive; and finally and most importantly, finding a nurturing niche for
Jim to foster dignity and growth.
It is an exhausting prescription of tasks. Sometimes I wonder if love has limits. Despite all the history we have
together, is there a point when all the giving leaves a relationship too uneven to continue well?
Within the negatives of a tragedy though, there seems to be a human need to salvage some positives. One obvious plus is
that you learn a great deal about yourself. You learn, rather surprisingly, that you do not drown. That somehow, you are
resilient enough to keep looking for the beauty of a bird in flight and to keep holding your children's smiles around you
like a warm cloak.
You learn to marvel at the depth and breadth of peoples' ability to care. You learn not to remember too often what once
was, because it hurts too much, and not to look forward too far, because it is too scary. You float for now, somewhere in
the present tense between the promise and the impossibility of daydreams.
You learn to hunker down within yourself to try to find a responsible way through head injury. Like a plant with leaves
and blossoms done in by a freak frost, you are forced to grow more roots. You learn to reach to the warmth of friends and
you wait to bloom again. Someday.