I recently celebrated an anniversary of sorts. A year ago, May 8, 2009, I had my closest brush with death. Those who know me know that this is saying a lot.
Allow me to explain what happened. Actually, I can’t explain what happened. This I know – I fell off my horse. But I have no memory of the fall or what lead up to it. Or roughly two weeks following the fall, for that matter. I can’t look to anyone else to explain, either, because I was riding alone.
The recovery was rough. It took weeks for my vision to mend enough that I didn’t get nauseous just trying to keep both eyes open at the same time. In my words at the time, “My eyes aren’t working together. They’re not cooperating.” Vision in my right eye was blurry and skewed and the eye wandered. I had partially torn my right rotator cuff, and could scarcely raise my arm without searing pain. And of course I had headaches. I don’t normally get headaches, but these were crippling, and again, often nauseating.
Maybe if I remembered anything after the accident I would be embarrassed about some of the things I said and did in the days following. But when I hear stories about myself, it’s almost like I’m hearing about a totally different person. It wasn’t me. Imposter Lauren was mean (I’m not really mean). And impatient. And emotional (I cried about EVERYTHING). And needy (I called my Mom constantly. As soon as she left my hospital room, I phoned her. Of course I was always crying…). And Imposter Lauren made absolutely no sense (something about cars in refrigerators, I have no idea. Was also convinced the IV in my arm was a zipper). I can assure you that the combination of “constantly confused” and “impatient/rude/mean” was very special. Imposter Lauren made things up in her head and then got mad at you if you didn’t follow her jumbled train of thought. She walked funny, talked funny, and clearly was not me.
I used to rack my brain, really grill myself and try to remember something, anything, about what might have happened. Maybe if I remembered a single moment it would help me piece together the whole perplexing puzzle. Finally my neurologist, sensing the frustration I felt with myself, spoke to me frankly. “Let it go,” he said, “it’s not coming back.” Amazingly, I didn’t get upset by this, I simply did as I was told.
So a year has gone by and I wish I could say I am 100% back to “me,” but I’m not. I try not to be discouraged, to give myself time. My doctor said I should allow five years. Really? Really. I hope it won’t take that long. I am slow sometimes, and still very forgetful. I hate that I must come across so absent-minded. That I have to ask people to repeat themselves when I know that they’ve already told me, I just can’t remember what it was that they said. Hate that I have to preface everything I say with, “stop me if I’ve already told you this.” I can’t stand making excuses for myself and so often I don’t, just let others think I am scatterbrained. I still get annoyed with myself when I have a thought and it just vanishes. What was I just thinking? It was important! Maybe half of the time it comes back to me.
I’ve learned to carry a pen and paper with me everywhere and to jot down these fleeting thoughts before they vanish. My life is ruled by notes that I write for myself. But when I get completely and utterly discouraged, think that this is no way to live life, I remember that even if it doesn’t feel like it, I have improved in the past year. The recovery has been terribly difficult and very trying for me, but it has also shown me that I am a strong person capable of overcoming a lot and it has taught me the value of patience, particularly patience with myself. The recovery is not complete, but it is in progress and I’m learning for that to be enough for now.
