I was having the best year of my life. A Junior at Boston College, it was 1981. I was serving as a resident assistant the first semester and was going to study abroad the second semester. A straight A student, I was an English major and had been accepted to Oxford, among other academic programs.

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I came home to Fairfield, Connecticut for the long Columbus Day weekend. It only took a few minutes for my life to change directions. I wish that seat belts had existed when I was growing up. By the time I was a teenager and they were introduced, I was told not to use them because it would take longer to free one’s self from the car in case of an accident or fire.

 

Of course, there were no airbags back then, either. I was the front seat passenger (aka, the “death” seat”) in a Buick Opel. That car was later recalled due to safety issues. But no one had heard of Ralph Nadar at the time of my accident.

 

I loved the driver and he loved me. If I’d been driving my behemoth of a car that night, maybe he’d still be alive. And maybe I’d have been OK. His name was Danny. He always drove too fast. It was his birthday, so I’m sure he had a couple of beers. By the way, the drinking age was 18 in Connecticut then and he was turning 20 that day. Mothers Against Drunk Driving hadn’t been established. Still, I was smart and I’m pretty sure that I would have known not to get in the car with a drunk driver behind the wheel.

 

Cell phones hadn’t been invented then and so there was no way I could have called home to ask my parents for a ride, anyway.  And besides, they would have been asleep by the time we left the movie, or where ever we went on our date that night. I don’t remember anything about the evening, except that I’d put on my favorite colorful striped sweater, stylish Jordache jeans and new clogs.

 

My parents got woken up, alright. And so did Danny’s parents. October 12, 1981. His birthday was the 11th, but it was past midnight when the car failed to navigate a curve and we careened into a tremendous tree. He broke his neck and died instantly. It makes it more painful for me to know that he died on his birthday. And that, apparently, I was powerless to stop his horrible fate.

 

I came to know the volunteer firefighter who found us. He told me that Danny looked completely fine, except for his broken neck. I was the one who looked like a wreck. I was unconscious, suffered a skull fracture, teeth were knocked out and others were hanging by a thread. My lip was split open.  My right hand was bent back in an unusual angle. I wasn’t breathing, as one lung had collapsed and the other had been punctured.

I had a compound fracture of my left leg. My femur bone was sticking straight out of my pants. My left clog split in half, with my foot smashed to smithereens. I’d broken every bone in that foot. And according to my orthopedic surgeon, my ankle bone was smashed into powder. My left foot and ankle had to be reconstructed.

 

But that was the least of my challenges at the time. I was fighting for my life. Actually, when the firefighters found me, they thought I was dead and didn’t even rush me to a hospital. They drove me to a hospital that wasn’t known for its emergency services. They said that they needed a doctor to sign my death certificate.

 

The doctor there thought that maybe, if they moved me to a larger hospital, my life could be saved. I was rushed to St. Vincent’s hospital in Bridgeport, Connecticut. My parents told me that, after receiving the worst phone call of their lives, they raced to the hospital. A doctor friend of theirs was on call that night. He came out of the emergency room in tears, shaking his head. He believed that I was a lost cause.

 

I’d lost too much external blood due to my leg’s compound fracture. I wasn’t breathing and hadn’t been for too much time.  I wasn’t conscious. And, I’d lost way too much blood internally because every one of my organs was either lacerated, twisted, punctured, crushed or pulverized. It’s a good thing that the doctors thought to do exploratory surgery to determine if I’d suffered any internal injuries. They opened me up and were immediately splattered with blood.

God only knows how many doctors worked on me.  I needed so much blood that they had to ask all my family members to donate on the spot. It was, I’m sure, my parents’ worst nightmare. And then they had to leave me in the hospital for Danny’s funeral.

 

I’m 62 and he’s still 20. And I still miss him. The guilt is unbearable. And yet, I’m angry with him, too. I’ve had so much pain and physical suffering that I can never really communicate the Hell that I’ve been through. And he deprived the world of him—and what a fun, smart, loving, wonderful person he was.

Against all odds, the medical staff at Saint Vincent’s saved my life. Now they told my parents that the biggest concern was the fact that I still hadn’t regained consciousness. I was in a coma. I had a breathing tube in my mouth; the doctors weren’t sure that I’d ever be able to talk. And between the injuries to my left leg and foot and the blow to my brain, they weren’t sure whether I’d ever be able to walk, either.

 

I don’t remember any of this, of course. I’ve been told, though, that, weeks later, when the doctors removed the breathing tube to see if I could breathe on my own, I started talking immediately. This wouldn’t surprise anyone who knew me, as it’s almost impossible for me to keep my mouth shut.

 

I did surprise anyone within earshot, however. What came out of my mouth made no logical sense. I screamed swear words, asked the doctor if he was a feminist, repeatedly sang lyrics to all songs from the Broadway musical “Hair” at the top of my longs and thought that I was Black. (I’m not.)

 

I didn’t recognize immediate family members. In fact, I confused the visiting clergyman with my own father. When I met a fellow patient named Jean, I said to her, “Hi Jean. How’s your hygiene?”

We can laugh about that now. It fascinates me, though, that I don’t remember any of this. I was no longer in a coma, but perhaps I’ve blocked this time frame from my memory due to the tremendous physical pain that I was suffering. Or maybe my brain hadn’t healed enough for me to make memories back then.

 

By the way, let me pause here to make a few points: I’m not looking for your sympathy. Everyone has had at least one crisis in their lives. It’s not WHAT happens to us—it’s how we handle it. And, I also want you to know that I haven’t talked about this in a long time. I don’t make a habit of it because it was a very painful time for me physically and emotionally. I like to leave it in the past.  My daily pain, limitations and very visible, repulsive scars are enough of a reminder.

 

I’m sharing my story in hopes that it might help someone. Also, I’m confessing that I need to stop after each paragraph to sigh, cry and catch my breath.

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The first day that I remember after my accident is sometime in December. First, though, I need to back track to November. About a month after the accident, I was strong enough to be moved to Bridgeport hospital, where top notch orthopedic surgeons were based. My broken leg had been in traction and my left foot immobilized while the medical crew at St. Vincent’s worked to saved my life.

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Now I needed to undergo several surgeries on my leg, foot and ankle. I had rods, wires and screws surgically placed into various parts of my leg. At this point, no one knew if I’d ever actually be able to walk, but the surgeons did their best to give me a fighting chance. My left leg was still encased in a full leg cast  when I was transferred again to Rusk Institute for Rehabilitative Medicine in New York City.

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And that’s where I was when I “woke up.” I’d been conscious, as I mentioned, before, but I have no recollection of anything past getting ready for my outing with Danny October 11. I woke up in a hospital bed, looked out the window and saw that it was snowing. “Where am I and why is it snowing in October?” I remember asking a nurse. I needed to pee and so I got out of bed and went to stand up to walk to the bathroom.

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“STOP!” screamed the nurse. “You can’t stand on that foot, let alone walk on it!” she shouted as she ran to my bed side. “But I have to pee, so I’m going to go no matter what you say,” I remember responding. “No. You have to use this bed pan,” she said flatly, as she handed it to me and pulled the curtain around my bed.

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“What the heck?” I remember wondering. I figured that this was a very realistic bad dream and I couldn’t wait to wake up from it, because I was in a lot of pain, hated using a bed pan and besides, I was hungry. But this same nurse said that I wasn’t allowed to eat food. I had to drink this disgusting can of Ensure.

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“What happened to me? When did I break my leg?” I asked the nurse. “Why can’t I eat food?”

She told me that she would call my parents and ask them to come to the hospital to explain. I had to wait because they lived in Connecticut and both worked full time. I was so confused when I went to sleep and woke up the next day—and I was still stuck in a strange hospital in the Winter.

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“What a long, bad dream this is,” I remember thinking to myself.

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My parents arrived the following day. “Where am I, why am I here and how did I break my leg? What’s going on?” I asked. My mom cried and asked if I remembered anything. I explained that the last thing I knew was that it was October and I was fine. They told me what happened. I was in shock. I can’t really describe how my life collapsed for me then or how crestfallen I felt. The mix of powerful, overwhelming emotions.

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They said how grateful they were that I was alive. How I was a fighter. How I’d surprised all the doctors. How I could turn this lemon into lemonade. How if I worked really hard, maybe I could walk and maybe, one day, I could return to college.

 But for now, I had to concentrate on doing what I could each day to heal. Every day, I had a full day of “classes.” I worked with a respiratory therapist, a psychologist, a social worker and a cognitive therapist. At first, my physical therapy included resistance and weight training for my arms so that I could develop strength. For all these weeks, I’d been laying down and hadn’t been moving. I’d lost body mass, strength and vitality. I was too skinny before the car accident and now I was emaciated.

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My parents asked the medical staff at Rusk if I could now eat real food. Perhaps my internal organs had to heal, or perhaps I had to let dental implants heal—or perhaps when all I could do was lay down, they couldn’t give me actual food to eat. I was very appreciative when the nurse brought me my first normal meal, consisting of small amounts of scrambled eggs, potatoes and toast. She said if I was able to keep that down, I’d get more for lunch. My parents started to bring care packages of food to the hospital when they came for their weekly visits.

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I cried each time they left. I told them it was because I felt so alone and sad and also, I couldn’t remember what they looked like each time they left. They called me each day and I cried every time when the call was over. During their next visit, they brought a photo of the two of them and left it by my bed side. I looked at it whenever I could.

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I told my parents that I couldn’t remember when to go to which class and they made a schedule for me on an index card and taped it to my wheelchair. It listed the time of each class, too. “But how will I know what time it is?” I asked. They brought my watch to me. It slipped off my wrist because I’d lost so much weight. “There is a clock on the wall and also, you’ll know when one class ends, to go to the one that follows. We wrote down the location of each activity.”

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I was too embarrassed to admit that I’d forgotten how to tell time. My brother came for a visit that weekend and he sat with me, helping me to relearn this basic skill.

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My sister came to visit me often, as well. She wheeled me out of Rusk to take me to a restaurant.  We had to select a restaurant at street level.  She was able to tilt my wheel chair over the curb. Eating out felt like heaven. Until I had to pee. The restroom were upstairs. “Can you hold it in?” she asked. I couldn’t. My sister, who is not much bigger than I am, had to carry me up the stairs, open the bathroom door, open up the stall door—all while holding me. Then, she had to help me get my pants and underwear down, while I stood on one foot. I’m sure that’s when she developed a bad back. Here I was, 20 years old, and I had to be carried like a baby.  I remember that we both laughed and cried. At least I was able to sit down as I descended the stairs, while my sister stepped down the stairs in front of me, making sure that no one was going to climb the stairs while I was slowly working my way down.

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Nothing was handicapped accessible in 1981.

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I bet you think I’m going to say I was elated when they removed my cast. The process was painful, noisy and smelly. I hadn’t seen my leg in months. It was revolting. Withered, way too thin, filled with scars and what looked like a cavern where my thigh had been. I still have that hole there. It’s where my femur popped out.

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My painful journey was about to begin. Now, not only did I need to focus on relearning just about everything mentally, I had to try to use a very damaged and atrophied leg. I wasn’t allowed to stand on it yet, though. The physical therapist encouraged me to “toe touch.” It even hurt when I tried to isolate my toe muscles to have them move independently of my foot. After mastering toe touching, I could put partial weight on my left foot for a few moments. It was excruciating.  But it was about to get much worse. When they told me that I could and should try to stand on both feet, it hurt like Hell. I asked them to remove my leg—that’s how much it hurt.

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I’d never known pain like this and I hope that you never do, either. I couldn’t even imagine, though how it could get any worse. But then the physical therapists manually manipulated my foot and ankle. I would scream bloody murder, tears streaming down my face like rivers. They explained that I needed to have a minimal range of motion in my foot in order to walk. At that point, I just wanted the pain to stop. It didn’t seem worth it to face this much pain in order to be able to walk.

Besides having the physical therapists move my foot and ankle, they asked me to try to move it myself. It’s almost impossible to inflict pain on one’s self. I felt like they were judging me. But they weren’t going through what I was and it’s difficult to communicate to someone else the extreme pain I was forced to endure each moment that I had to move my foot or someone else moved it. My physical therapy also included having to walk up and down the therapy floor as I held on to bars on each side. With each step, I felt shooting pains in my foot, ankle, knee and up my leg. While I was going through Hell several times a day, my friends were enjoying college life, though Danny was still underground in a lifeless body.

Right now, I was supposed to be studying abroad, living life to the fullest. I knew that I was beyond lucky to be alive, but the life I was having then sure didn’t seem worth living. And to make matters worse, I missed Danny and I never got to say goodbye.

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Staff members at Rusk suggested that I spend a weekend at home so that I could have a change of scenery, take a break from hospital life and see what it would be like for me when I would be able to return home for good. It was lucky that I was so light then, because my father had to carry me up a full flight of stairs to my bedroom.

It felt cozy to be in my own bed. But I awoke that night with the worst pain I had in my life. And as you’ve read, I’d already experienced way more than my fair share of pain. It felt like someone was stabbing me in the stomach, pushing the knife through my body and the knife was cutting through my back. I felt like my stomach was being sawed in half. Repeatedly. Of course, my blood curdling screams woke up my poor parents. They called the family doctor, the same doctor who had left that emergency room in tears on October 12. He said, judging from my screams, that they’d need to bring me to the emergency room.

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In retrospect, by now I’d bet that that emergency room staff was getting tired of me. The physician on call that night didn’t know what I had, but he gave me a shot of morphine. That took a bit of the edge off, but I was still in agony. The doctor asked me to pee in a cup and they tested my urine. Within a few minutes, that felt like hours, the doctor came in and congratulated me on having a kidney stone. He told us that often times, when a person has broken as many bones as I had, the calcium deposits collect and create kidney stones. He gave me a second shot of morphine.

 Not only did that relieve my pain, I felt euphoric. It was the first time I felt happy since the accident. I actually felt like I was floating. And I told the doctor that I was in love with him. I now understood how people can become addicted to drugs. If I could have taken morphine on a regular basis, it would sure have helped me tolerate physical therapy and all the other painful obstacles I faced on a daily basis. But they didn’t allow that. The next day I rested at home before my return trip to the rehab hospital in New York.

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After a couple more months, I was able to transition to a walker and then a cane. By that time, six or seven months had gone by since the night of my accident. And I was getting dismissed from Rusk Institute.

That’s when the doctors told me that I needed more surgery. They informed me that I needed to have my rods, wires and screws removed from the various parts of my leg. I wasn’t home for more than a couple of weeks and then it was back into Bridgeport hospital.

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I hadn’t remembered all my other surgeries, and that’s a good thing. I had no idea how much suffering awaited me. When I woke up from that operation, I felt like someone was stabbing my leg repeatedly with daggers. I remember, once again, screaming at the top of my lungs. Pain medication didn’t do squat.

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The doctors told me that I had a condition called keloid scarring. Very thick scar tissue had developed at each of my injury sites. This prevented flexibility and mobility. This scarring contributed greatly to my pain and suffering. And the longer that I was immobile, the stiffer I’d become. It was a vicious cycle.  By now, I was living back at home and going to an Easter Seal’s Physical Rehab Center on a daily basis.

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Though I suppose it was a good thing to have all the hardware removed from my leg, those few days of staying immobile in the hospital caused my leg to stiffen. I had to return to the hospital to be put under general anesthesia again—this time to allow the doctors to manually bend my joints in the hopes of allowing me to regain some flexibility.

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Once again, I awoke in agony.  I was glad to return home that day, though and now, a physical therapist came to the house. He knew that my leg was able to bend and stretch, since the doctors had told him the degree of flexibility I could achieve when they were manually pushing and pulling.

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He was patient and kind, yet determined to get me to be able to walk without a cane and to climb up and down stairs. My leg, knee, foot and ankle all needed extensive physical therapy. He came every day and I had a ton of exercises to do. Each session brought mind numbing, debilitating pain. Words don’t do it justice. I wonder if my current hearing loss is due, in part, to all the screaming I did back then. The poor physical therapist had to do his job despite my screams and constant tears.

I have a lot of people to be thankful for helping me to be able to walk and to navigate stairs. I need to hold onto railings, I can’t run, skip, jump, ski or water ski, but I can dance. My left foot and ankle are permanently swollen and hurt every day, pretty much all the time. My knee hurts frequently. I can’t stand for long periods of time or my leg hurts too much. My limp becomes noticeable when I’ve been sitting for too long. I also have often low- grade headaches behind my right eye or in the right front part of my head. And I continue to have several very visible and disgusting scars.

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My worst one is on my left arm. It’s there because when the hospital emergency personnel were trying to save my life, they had to start IV. But they didn’t connect it adequately into my vein, as I happen to have very tiny, superficial veins. The revolting scar was caused by this IV infiltration. Air was being pumped into my vein instead of fluids. This mishap gave me a third degree burn and left a hole in my arm. My bone was fully exposed.  They did save my life, though, so I’m giving them a pass.

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But Bridgeport hospital wouldn’t accept me into their hospital for my orthopedic surgery with a hole in my arm.  And that’s why, I needed another operation at St. V’s. They had to take skin from my hip (yes, I have a scar there, too) and regraft the skin onto my arm. But since I have the tendency to Keloid scar, the hole in my arm now looks like a flaming, squashed plum splattered across my forearm.

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To this day, that scar will throb from time to time. When it throbs now, I think of Harry Potter.  And I smile.

 They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger and I like to remind myself that I’m very strong.

 When I’m wearing winter clothes, no one can see my scars. And often times, I’m walking fine, so strangers don’t know what I’ve been through. If you have the time to get to know me, though, you might discover that I have challenges learning some kinds of tasks or retaining new information.

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I didn’t let that stop me after spending the better part of a year in the hospital. I was determined to go back to college. Boston College is filled with hundreds of flights of stairs throughout campus. Walking was a struggle then and I had to find time for outpatient physical and cognitive therapy among other treatments. I registered for three classes a semester, which is half the typical load. I’d already taken my most challenging classes, by and large. And, so mostly, I simply needed to take classes that I enjoyed in order to finish college. The university knew about my accident and was willing to make accommodations.

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 It was tiring getting back to a very large campus after spending so much time motionless in a hospital bed. I remember being afraid that the other college kids would knock me over as I slowly navigated all the steps with my cane. It turns out that one of the reasons that I was so tired was that I was inadvertently overdosing on Dilantin. The neurologist prescribed this medicine to prevent seizures, a common problem for people who’ve suffered a serious blow to the head. He neglected to mention that I should be getting blood levels checked on a regular basis. I was barely 90 pounds, so I didn’t need such a large dose. I felt better after lessening the dose and was very happy to be able to stop taking the medicine all together after a few more months.

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I’d been a straight A student and now I had to be satisfied with Bs. I had to let go of the idea of working to make money or of serving as a resident assistant. My job was to give it my all for each of my therapies and to simply go to class and do my homework. I enjoyed lifting weights in the gym to build up my arm strength, doing certain machines with my legs as part of my physical therapy exercises and then soothing my aching body in the hot tub. A high light for me was getting to know the athletes, including Doug Flutie and Michael Adams, who both went on to become Pro athletes.

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I’ll never be able to get that year back, so I try to make the most out of life right now. I enjoyed my friends that year and then they graduated. I made new friends the next year, though, and spent two summers taking classes to be able to get my diploma a year after my classmates. I figured that if I could get a college degree after going through what I did, that I could do almost anything I wanted to if I set my mind to it.

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I’d missed my chance for the semester abroad and so my sister suggested that I take a trip to Europe after I graduated. My friend told me about a trip she’d been on the previous year and suggested I go on that exact trip, a TWA “Get-away” in August.

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I met my husband on that plane ride. When I discovered that he was in my same tour group, I asked him if I could tag along with him. When he said yes, neither one of us could have predicted that I’d be tagging along with him for our entire lives.

I wouldn’t have met him if I hadn’t been in that accident. It makes me feel happy, grateful and guilty all at the same time. I was also surprised that anyone could fall in love with someone covered with scars, who has a limp and can’t process or learn new information like a typical person. I was impressed when I noticed that he was mentally calculating the exchange rate from one country to the next. (There was no Euro then.) He admired my confidence in traveling and my optimism.

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I always had very strong verbal and communication skills. I didn’t lose those traits in my accident.  Math and a sense of direction were never my strong points. But these weaknesses increased tremendously as a result of my TBI (Traumatic Brain Injury.) I’m very grateful about the invention of the GPS and WAZE. They were made for me. Before that, I would research Google Maps and write down directions to any new places I needed to find. Prior to that, I’d have to ask someone to read a map for me and then I’d write down the directions. I’m unable to read maps. To me, it looks like puke on paper. When I get lost, I’ll stop and ask someone for directions.  I memorize landmarks, too.

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“If that Gulf station (for instance) changes hands, I’m not sure I’m going to be able to find your house,” I’ll say to friends or family members.

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These limitations haven’t stopped me from having a career.  Who knows what I would have been able to achieve if I hadn’t gotten hurt when I was 20. But I’m satisfied with what I have been able to accomplish. I became a newspaper reporter after college. I continued in that profession when I moved to Denver to be close to my new boyfriend. I then became the Public Relations Director of a non-profit for a couple of years before starting my own public relations and publicity firm.

After we got married, my husband and I moved back to the New York/Connecticut region and I returned to working as a P.R. director for non-profits. After about a year of married life, I became pregnant and needed to be treated by a high- risk medical staff due to my extensive injuries, including a broken pelvis. They suggested I take “Dancing Through Pregnancy” with other future moms experiencing high risk pregnancies.

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Giving birth was much harder for me than a typical woman and they called in surgeons to perform a C-section. But these doctors didn’t know about how determined I can be. And besides, the pain was NOTHING for me compared to what I’d been through. In terms of pain, it was no big deal. After many long hours of struggle, (but NO C-section) my husband and I were thrilled to welcome a new, healthy baby into the world. He’s now 32, a computer systems’ engineer and is happily married to a delightful woman who is a speech pathologist. I might be a bit biased, but our son is a wonderful human being. And he wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t had that accident.

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My daughter was born five and a half years later—and THAT was a piece of cake. She was actually born before I could even get into the delivery room. She’s also a rock- solid individual. She’s now 27, has a master’s degree and is an elementary school teacher. She’s married to a wonderful man who teaches High School English.

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Not only would our daughter not be here if I hadn’t been the passenger in that horrific car accident, she was actually born during Columbus Day Weekend. I’ve been blessed these past 27 years; I haven’t had to spend this holiday weekend simply mourning the loss of Danny, bemoaning my injuries, feeling guilt and anger. I’ve been able to focus on celebrating our daughter’s arrival into this world.

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I’ve always been embarrassed about admitting that my brain doesn’t operate like a typical person and I also don’t want any sympathy. And that’s why I haven’t talked much about the accident, especially to my children. But when they were both Juniors in college, I don’t think I breathed at all those years. I was convinced that they were going to be taken from me and from this world.

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And through the years, they knew not to come to me for help with Math. They were also aware of the fact that I have the world’s worst sense of direction. But mostly, I hope that they’ve seen how I want to bring joy to the world. How I want to be happy and grateful. Now that they’re adults, they’ve experienced my limitations first hand. I hope that they’ve also seen my strong points: determination, a positive attitude and instead of focusing on what’s impossible for me to do, I prefer focusing on my strengths.

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I get a kick out of it when our daughter doesn’t let me get away with saying “I’m not good at math.” Sometimes she’ll even bring me assignments that she gives her 5th grade students. And then, usually, she’ll suggest that I check my work. When I answer a question correctly, I enjoy telling her that “I’m smarter than a fifth grader!”

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By the way, the day that I brought her home from the hospital as a newborn, I got a call from my boss. She was laying me off. I stayed home then to bring up the kids, though I did work part time after our youngest started elementary school.

I’ve been very committed to exercising every day and to partake in activities that will challenge my brain. I lift weights three times a week, I do yoga three times a week and I either speed walk or use my elliptical every day for at least 30 minutes. I took adult education classes at the local college until COVID. I play the piano, do a ton of word games each day and try to maintain an active social life. I read the paper every day, though I can only concentrate on reading for small chunks of time.

I wonder: Is that because I have ADD? I looked up the symptoms and I have every one of them. Or is my need for frequent breaks, my fidgeting and my forgetfulness actually results of the head injury?

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Who knows and does it really matter?

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Nourishing my sense of humor is another effective coping technique of mine. I started a blog in which I look at the silly side of life. My daughter posts it for me on Sub Stack. It’s a free, subscription- based blog and if you’re interested, it’s called “A 60 Something Gets Silly (Sometimes)”. The link is https://a60somethinggetssilly.substack.com.

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Despite my goal of challenging my brain, I chose to ask my daughter to take care of the posting part of the blog. I even tried to find it myself, couldn’t and then had to ask her how anyone could find it.

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And, I also must admit that I still haven’t completely mastered how to watch a TV show. Is it on Netflix, Prime or Peacock? Which channel changer turns on the TV, which clicker turns on the volume and which button do I push on this changer to select the correct streaming channel and then the actual show?

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A toddler can probably put on their favorite TV show and it’s a struggle for me. And paying the bills? That’s too much math. But I enjoy writing my blog and most days, I can get Wordle in three tries and often times, in two. But I won’t post that to brag. And it’s not because I’m modest. Posting on Face Book is too complicated for me. Lots of stuff is too tricky for me. If my husband dies before me, I’m screwed. I guess it will be OK if I’m unable to watch TV, but I’m going to have to pay the bills somehow.

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I’m grateful that I can read, comprehend and discuss books and newspaper articles. I’m unable to remember the names of the leaders of some remote countries or recall exact details, though I am able to remember the main points of each story. I often feel inadequate when conversing with my siblings, who, it seems to me, can recall every detail about national and global events. That’s when I remind myself of a concept that I learned in a meditation program called Mind/Kind. I repeat the mantra: “In this moment, I AM enough.”

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It's been emotional and challenging for me to write about my experience here. When my kids were becoming old enough to drive, I started to share some of the details. It took them years to convince me that I should speak about this at the local high school. “Your story would have more impact than the speakers we’ve had to listen to at school who simply tell us not to drink and drive,” my son said.

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I didn’t want to serve as the featured spearker when they were students there, though, because I didn’t want their friends to know about my deficiencies. And I didn’t want to embarrass my kids. A few years back, I’d finally worked up the courage. I was hoping that the school would hold several sessions about driving safely, wearing seat belts and not using any substances before getting behind the wheel. Instead, they said that they only hold one brief program about it—just before the prom. I was scheduled to speak and then COVID struck and the prom was cancelled.

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Now prom is back on track, but I’ve chickened out again. I’m patting myself on the back about writing this piece for this web site. And at least I’m also brave enough to drive a car or sit as a passenger. I am very conscious, however, as to what kind of car I’ll enter. I strongly prefer to be inside the safest vehicle possible. The first thing that I do upon entering a car is to put on my seat belt.

 

I hope my story offers readers some hope.

Unfortunately, this web site confirmed suspicions I already had about the fact that TBI victims are more likely to develop Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s.  Talk about adding insult to injury! Is the accident really going to haunt me more, now that I’m in my 60’s? 

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And that’s when I remind myself of the power of positive thinking. I can’t undo the past. I COULD spend my days ruminating about the events of October 12, 1981 or worrying about what scary developments the future might hold. Or I can choose to focus on what brings me joy in life. I can focus on my blessings and volunteer to help others. I refuse to allow this tragedy or its aftermath to define me.  I  have the power to define myself by showing up each day with love in my heart, inner peace, eyes open wide for adventure and an attitude ready to embrace life.