I know I don't say it or or show it or even feel it enough (in fact more often than not, I'm muttering under my breath about how I just want to left alone), but I am incredibly thankful for my family and my welcoming home.
Six years ago, getting a Thanksgiving day pass from the rehab was one of the first steps toward getting me home for good. I was reminded of my good fortune a couple of times this week.
First, I was doing a "peer visit" at the rehab -- with a man who strikingly resembled me as a patient (helmet and all) -- and was thrilled to witness he and his wife receiving that good news of a Thanksgiving pass of their own.
Even more jarring perhaps, was a visit I and a couple other members of Brain Injury Voices took to a newly-formed brain injury support group at a nearby out-patient rehab. In the audience was my last roommate at the rehab. I think I had four in total; and he was the only one to outstay me, despite or possibly because of his insistence that he didn't need to be there. Unfortunately, we didn't get to talk, and I don't know if he remembered me; but it seems that he now lives in a group home for people with brain injuries and comes to this rehab during the day.
Jordan [not his real name] was in his late 30s when we met, was divorced, a former nurse, and would receive regular visits from his mother and sister, neither of which were in a position to take him home with them. 2010 was his second stay at the rehab, after having suffered two strokes in 2008. In 2010 he had a seizure that brought him back, because it was unclear whether he was able to properly keep up with his anti-seizure medication.
So, IF...: if I had not chosen a sedentary career at a well-established corporation with excellent benefits and a vested dedication to its employees; if I had not been married and settled into a fairly reliable and navigable house; if my parents were not gainfully retired and healthy; basically, if I had not planned my life so perfectly around having a debilitating illness at 40; if I had not kept up with my meds when I had my seizure in 2012, I most certainly could have been Jordan, sitting patiently and listening to some bozo 's pseudo-inspiring drivel about how hard work, patience and creative strategizing pay off.
So I am very thankful for everything I have, including the stupid brain that got me here.
My favorite punctuation mark is the semicolon. And it's an apt metaphor for recent years of my life: it's more than a comma pause, not quite a period stop; it usually appears in the middle of a sentence; no one quite knows how to use it properly; it's a sigh of contemplation; a knowing wink; an upward glance of reflection.
Sunday, November 27, 2016
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