Play & Book Excerpts
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But My Brain Had Other Ideas:
A Memoir of Recovery from Brain Injury
(She Writes Press)
© 2017 Deb Brandon
Something is very wrong.
A wave of overwhelming fatigue washes over me. I fight to keep my eyes open. Am I about to have a seizure? I need help. Where is the call button? I don’t see the button. All I see is its cord.
My arm feels impossibly heavy. I stretch out my hand, grasp the cord, and pull on it. It won’t budge. I pull harder. It still won’t move.
I call out to my roommate and her visiting daughter.
My voice is too small. They are both caught up in the litany of complaints pouring out of my roommate’s mouth.
I roll onto my stomach. My head and arm dangle over the side of the bed. The call-button cord is caught on something. I stretch out my arm. I lean. I lean farther, and farther again, another fraction of an inch, and . . . I grab the cord and pull it free.
I press the button, collapse onto the bed, and wait. Nothing happens. I press the call button again. Nothing.
I struggle to think. I have to get help. I have to get a nurse. I have to get to the nurses’ station. I have to get up.
I roll to a sitting position. I pause to gather the energy for my next move. I launch myself toward the wall. When I reach it, I lean heavily on it. I pause to steady myself. I take a deep breath, press my shoulder against the wall, and slide my way along the wall toward the door, propping myself up with my shoulder.
I rest right in front of the wide gap in the curtains drawn around my roommate’s bed, hoping they’ll notice me.
But they don’t.
Giving up, I move on. I pause when I reach the door. I hear voices coming from the nurses’ station.
The hallway is empty.
Grabbing the doorframe, I heave myself across the doorway. I eyeball the distance to the nurses’ station.
I slide along the wall, focusing on each step. Pick the right foot up, move it forward, plant it on the ground. Pick the left foot up, move it forward, plant it on the ground.
My shoulder runs up against something. I look up - I am a doorframe away from my goal. The nurses have their backs to me. They are still chatting. I try to call, but all that comes out is a soft, halting murmur.
I don’t have enough energy to lurch across another open doorway. When I focus to measure the chasm with my eyes, I realize that I’m in luck—the door is closed.
I maneuver past the protruding doorframe, inch by inch, ridge by ridge. When I reach the door, I shuffle across it, no longer able to pick up my feet. I work my way past the frame on the other side. I glance up. Two nurses are sitting six feet away from me, the closest one with his back to me. I can see the other nurse’s profile. I breathe a sigh of relief.
She’ll see me.
She doesn’t.
I slide along the last stretch of wall, energy almost depleted. I’m barely within arm’s reach of the male nurse, but I am invisible.
Leaning heavily against the wall, I slide toward the nurse and tap his shoulder. I whisper, “I don’t feel . . . " He whirls around, leaps from his chair, and shoves it under me as I collapse.
***
It seems awfully bright in the room. My eyes are closed. I try to open them.
I can’t.
I sense a lot of people in the room with me. I feel the air move as they move.
I recognize the anguished voice of a nurse I chatted with earlier. “But I don’t understand. I was talking to her this morning; she was fine.”
I want to reassure her. I want to tell her that I was fine when I talked to her. I don’t want her to feel guilty; it’s not her fault.
But I can’t.
I hear a piercing beeping, followed by a tinny voice announcing over and over again something about a code. Oh, there’s some sort of medical emergency going on.
Why is the light so bright? Am I in surgery?
“She’s going into convulsions!”
Who’s going into convulsions? I feel a hand on my leg. Oh, I’m going into convulsions. I hear the sound of someone moaning. Is that me? Maybe I’m the medical emergency.
***
The light is brighter, though no longer blinding, no longer harsh. It’s pure white light, far above me, filling my field of vision.
I want to know it. I want to be one with it. I’m floating toward it, lying horizontally, facing upward.
I’m content. Peace surrounds me, from without and within.
I am.
I am suspended in time. Time is meaningless. I can keep drifting toward the light forever. It feels right.
I continue to float, but . . . the light is no longer drawing me in.
I don’t understand. Did I forget something? Is something missing? But . . . I don’t . . . I want . . .
My eyes open to a darkened room.
Where is the light? Why is everything so dark? Where are all the people? Even my obnoxious roommate is gone.
Nurses and doctors swarm into the room. Someone says, “You’re going to the ICU.”
***
This was not how I imagined my life.
I was an academic, a successful professor of mathematics at a prestigious university. I was multi-lingual, thanks to my international upbringing. I loved to travel, especially to developing countries where I could explore traditional textile work, enriching my own abilities as a weaver. I was the married mother of two young teenagers; we lived a comfortable life in the suburbs. I was young, barely in my forties, and healthy, with a healthy lifestyle. I'd had no car accident, concussion, or stroke. A year ago, no one would have considered me at high-risk for brain injury.
I was not supposed to be here.
***
A wave of overwhelming fatigue washes over me. I fight to keep my eyes open. Am I about to have a seizure? I need help. Where is the call button? I don’t see the button. All I see is its cord.
My arm feels impossibly heavy. I stretch out my hand, grasp the cord, and pull on it. It won’t budge. I pull harder. It still won’t move.
I call out to my roommate and her visiting daughter.
My voice is too small. They are both caught up in the litany of complaints pouring out of my roommate’s mouth.
I roll onto my stomach. My head and arm dangle over the side of the bed. The call-button cord is caught on something. I stretch out my arm. I lean. I lean farther, and farther again, another fraction of an inch, and . . . I grab the cord and pull it free.
I press the button, collapse onto the bed, and wait. Nothing happens. I press the call button again. Nothing.
I struggle to think. I have to get help. I have to get a nurse. I have to get to the nurses’ station. I have to get up.
I roll to a sitting position. I pause to gather the energy for my next move. I launch myself toward the wall. When I reach it, I lean heavily on it. I pause to steady myself. I take a deep breath, press my shoulder against the wall, and slide my way along the wall toward the door, propping myself up with my shoulder.
I rest right in front of the wide gap in the curtains drawn around my roommate’s bed, hoping they’ll notice me.
But they don’t.
Giving up, I move on. I pause when I reach the door. I hear voices coming from the nurses’ station.
The hallway is empty.
Grabbing the doorframe, I heave myself across the doorway. I eyeball the distance to the nurses’ station.
I slide along the wall, focusing on each step. Pick the right foot up, move it forward, plant it on the ground. Pick the left foot up, move it forward, plant it on the ground.
My shoulder runs up against something. I look up - I am a doorframe away from my goal. The nurses have their backs to me. They are still chatting. I try to call, but all that comes out is a soft, halting murmur.
I don’t have enough energy to lurch across another open doorway. When I focus to measure the chasm with my eyes, I realize that I’m in luck—the door is closed.
I maneuver past the protruding doorframe, inch by inch, ridge by ridge. When I reach the door, I shuffle across it, no longer able to pick up my feet. I work my way past the frame on the other side. I glance up. Two nurses are sitting six feet away from me, the closest one with his back to me. I can see the other nurse’s profile. I breathe a sigh of relief.
She’ll see me.
She doesn’t.
I slide along the last stretch of wall, energy almost depleted. I’m barely within arm’s reach of the male nurse, but I am invisible.
Leaning heavily against the wall, I slide toward the nurse and tap his shoulder. I whisper, “I don’t feel . . . " He whirls around, leaps from his chair, and shoves it under me as I collapse.
***
It seems awfully bright in the room. My eyes are closed. I try to open them.
I can’t.
I sense a lot of people in the room with me. I feel the air move as they move.
I recognize the anguished voice of a nurse I chatted with earlier. “But I don’t understand. I was talking to her this morning; she was fine.”
I want to reassure her. I want to tell her that I was fine when I talked to her. I don’t want her to feel guilty; it’s not her fault.
But I can’t.
I hear a piercing beeping, followed by a tinny voice announcing over and over again something about a code. Oh, there’s some sort of medical emergency going on.
Why is the light so bright? Am I in surgery?
“She’s going into convulsions!”
Who’s going into convulsions? I feel a hand on my leg. Oh, I’m going into convulsions. I hear the sound of someone moaning. Is that me? Maybe I’m the medical emergency.
***
The light is brighter, though no longer blinding, no longer harsh. It’s pure white light, far above me, filling my field of vision.
I want to know it. I want to be one with it. I’m floating toward it, lying horizontally, facing upward.
I’m content. Peace surrounds me, from without and within.
I am.
I am suspended in time. Time is meaningless. I can keep drifting toward the light forever. It feels right.
I continue to float, but . . . the light is no longer drawing me in.
I don’t understand. Did I forget something? Is something missing? But . . . I don’t . . . I want . . .
My eyes open to a darkened room.
Where is the light? Why is everything so dark? Where are all the people? Even my obnoxious roommate is gone.
Nurses and doctors swarm into the room. Someone says, “You’re going to the ICU.”
***
This was not how I imagined my life.
I was an academic, a successful professor of mathematics at a prestigious university. I was multi-lingual, thanks to my international upbringing. I loved to travel, especially to developing countries where I could explore traditional textile work, enriching my own abilities as a weaver. I was the married mother of two young teenagers; we lived a comfortable life in the suburbs. I was young, barely in my forties, and healthy, with a healthy lifestyle. I'd had no car accident, concussion, or stroke. A year ago, no one would have considered me at high-risk for brain injury.
I was not supposed to be here.
***
Photo Credit: Charlee Brodsky
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Deb Brandon is a weaver, respected textile artist and writer. She is also a popular speaker on textiles and other topics. Deb is an active volunteer with Weave a Real Peace (WARP), serving multiple terms as a board member as well as writing the long-running “Textile Techniques from Around the World” column for the organization’s newsletter.
Since 1991, Deb has been a professor in the Mathematical Sciences Department at Carnegie Mellon University. Her books include But My Brain Had Other Ideas and Threads Around the World. Her essays have appeared in several publications, including Hand/Eye Magazine and Weaving Today. In her spare time, Deb loves to travel, and she has competed nationally and internationally in dragon boating. |
