Ph.D.

A former student posted her successful defense of her doctoral dissertation on Face book. She is now a Ph.D. I am very proud of her. Now the provost needs to sign off but that is just a formality. Anyway, that’s how it is supposed to be. I wrote my dissertation a couple years post TBI. It wasn’t written quickly or without problems and challenges. Then came the hassles from the university. I was the first to submit a dissertation online as the new rule stated. The work was too large to email. After a week of so the tech guys finally figured out a way to send the document. Defending my dissertation was a breeze. I was a Ph.D. or should have been. The new provost wanted the abstract, one page out of over 300, rewritten. For nearly three months she kept sending it back saying to rewrite it. She never gave any comments. The people at the university where I worked helped me including some who had worked on several Doctoral committees. My dean said there was something political going on at the university and I was caught in the middle. Finally a woman from the university called to see how I was doing. I told her of how many times I had rewritten the abstract and of all the scholastic people who had helped me. I also informed her that I was having seizures again. She said she would take care of the page and she did. To graduate in September the provost had to sign off by a certain date. The provost was on vacation in Egypt and was scheduled to return the day after the final day. No one else could sign off. I graduated in November.

May 2009

Yes, the RV is home! My new home for the next few years is finally sitting in the driveway; glistening with newness and smelling of newness! I named her “Dare,” not for daring to leave so much behind but because the name brings me the softness and peace of a new beginning. “I’ll put a pebble in my shoe and watch me walk; I can walk, I can walk. I shall call the pebble “Dare.” We talk about walking. And when we both have had enough, I will take Dare from my shoe saying, ‘meet your new road.’” - the words of a song from the musical “Godspell;” from a younger time in my life when I knew every word to every song in every Broadway (and some off Broadway) show before traveling to New Haven or New York to see the live performance. This was before musicals’ settings became so overblown and before shows looked too much alike; a time when songs hung in your head long after the show ended and you joined with strangers singing on the streets on their way to their cars. Dare is also my mother’s middle name; a name I clung to when I first saw it written, placed proudly between her first and our last name. I worried one of my siblings would be given the name, moving it further from me. But, no, Dare was left standing alone as if waiting for me. Dare, the name I sometimes call myself and feel it fits following Ayo. Ayo Dare is me when alone in my room planning my life’s next adventure. Now, Dare sits in the driveway patiently waiting. With a smiling satisfaction, I line the shelves. The stress of packing the house when wanting only to set up the RV and hit the road has driven me to bed for most of the day. Right outside is my new home.

Writing and Creating

Today I joined two meetups, one for writers and one for creative folk. I want to begin writing and creating again. My first published piece was a paper I wrote for an assignment in eighth grade. My teacher entered it somewhere. I was horrified. When I received my copy of the book I either threw it out or buried it. Now I wish I had the book now. The paper was about the educational system. Since then I’ve written a few pieces and articles for magazines. While I worked at the university I was required to write and publish scholarly papers. I pushed the rules for the scholarly papers to include some creative form and somehow got away with it. Now I just want to feel the quiet excitement of creating from writing. All the world is blocked out. Sipping a cup of tea or a chilled glass of wine. My fingers would fly. I would be in the zone. I’ve done craft work since I was a kid. I watch my work coming to life. My fingers work magic. My favorite things I’ve created are dolls from the Virginia Collection. The doll was very simply made which allowed me to focus on the clothing and head wraps that made them each individual. I have four left. The others were sold to doll collectors. For a time I displayed in city and university libraries. I’m excitedly waiting to see what my mind will imagine next as I crawl out of the brain injury cocoon.

Gina and Princess

It turns out that my little dog, Gina, does not have a respiratory infection as the vet thought. She is still sick and I am still worried. We returned to the vet who said Gina may have a cold (This has been going on too long to be a cold.) or it could be allergies as it is allergy season. I can guess! I go to the vet for answers. We were sent home wills cough syrup to be taken at night along with ¼ tablet of Benadryl. Fortunately Gina will have her six month comprehensive exam in two weeks. The exam includes blood work. What scares me is the same guess was made about little Princess. Princess was a Miniature Pincher I rescues from the pound. Princess, at age nine, was put in the pound along with two other dogs whose owner could no longer care for them. Her nails were so long we stopped at the groomer before going home. When she was let into the house, Princess inspected everything. Outside she ran along the fence looking for a way out. I plugged every opening she could slip through. Princess was an alpha dog. She took charge of her brother, Eddie, (a Cocker Spaniel) and me. My bedroom was downstairs in a split level house. Princess would come to the top of the stairs and bark to let me know it was bedtime. Then she would return to bed. If I didn’t follow her down she would again stand at the top of the stairs and bark until I relented. When Eddie became blind, Princess stayed close to him, looking after him. I was very touched. Princess took care of her brother. I took Princess to the vet when she started sneezing. The vet said she probably had allergy problems. In the end she became so sick and was suffering so much that I held her as the vet administered the drug that would quietly kill her. As tears poured down my cheeks I watched her soul rise from her body and take to the sky. Now I am told Gina probably has a cold or allergy problems. I am worried.

While Waiting for My Husband

While Waiting For My Husband I was to have a husband; that was known from the minute of my birth, a 6 lb. 3 oz. brown baby girl with glistening black curls. As I came screaming, with tightly clinched fists, my parents envisioned a wedding and the laughter of grandchildren. Fantasy, play, and dreams prepared me for my established future. I was my mother’s eager little apprentice, learning to cook, clean, and sew. Sears catalog cutouts provided the furnishings for my future home. My house, as I dreamed it, would be pale yellow with a white picket fence. Roses of every color would line the front of the house. The backyard would be for my children to play their grass-destroying games. The dog, a wondering mutt brought home by my son (“Can we keep him, Mom, please?”), would run off with the children’s balls, disrupting their play while I laughed from the kitchen window. We would invite our neighbors to barbeques to show off my husband’s grilling skills. My husband, tall with smooth Hershey candy bar dark skin, would be the school principal where I taught first grade. I would stop teaching when we married to be a housewife. My house would be spotless. The laundry would be clean, perfectly ironed, and neatly put in place. Every meal would be prepared from scratch and served piping hot when my husband walked in from work. Our marriage would be perfect and our love deeper than any ocean. As I waited for my husband, I worked low paying jobs that would end once he came along. I would give birth to three children. The first, a son, would be named after his father. The next two would be girls whose lives would be enveloped in pink. My son would learn to build birdhouses using saws, hammers and nails. With his father he would camp, fish, and watch sports. My daughters would help me in the kitchen. I would teach them to bake sugar cookies and to embroider table dollies as my mother had taught me. My family would be perfect in our yellow house with the white picket fence. As I waited for my husband, I traveled, staying in cheap college dorm rooms with shared baths. Once married, I would stay in five-star hotels and eat in fine restaurants. With my husband I would travel the world over, taking our children to museums, art galleries, and theme parks. I would teach them about great artists and art. They would smile, squealing, “Look, Mom, look at that!” Waiting for my husband, I moved from place to place, dated man after man, hoping he would be the one to sweep me away. But after lying naked and wet in their arms they would leave, forgetting my name in their rush to dress. I would go through my closet and remove the clothes I bought to please him because the next man wanted a different type of dress with slits and shimmers. My husband would run for city office. I would take care of designing the pamphlets, schedule engagements, and host political events. These events would be graced with the sparking crystal and the beautiful teacups I would have decoratively stored in the china cabinet. When he gives his acceptance speech I would proudly stand behind him and a little to his right. While I wait for my husband, I do things for the men I meet because they may be the one and, because of them, I now must not dream of a man who wants to run for city office because of the past I am forming. When I am old I would have grandchildren to brighten my eyes. They and my children would stand by me as my husband is laid to rest. My son and son-in-law would help me rise to walk back to the long black limousine. My hands would shake with age but my memories would be so loving and wonderfully beautiful with the husband I waited for to give my life to. At 40 I go to school, but when he comes my life will begin. I enroll in college. There I looked for him but instead of finding him - I graduated. I go to graduate school, a better place to find my husband. Again I graduate instead. And then a Ph.D., still looking; still sure he will come and I will have a yellow house with a white picket fence, roses and teacups like the cups I remember that were in my grandmother’s house. While I waited for my husband my time was running out to have children. I would have two children, a boy and a girl who would grow up to go to college, marry, and have children. At 50 I looked around and realized that, as with my life, my house held no sign of a man, a husband - just me. I worked as a professional woman in a meaningful job. I bought a yellow house with a white picket fence. I planted a rose garden and filled my china cabinet with sparkling crystal and beautiful fine china tea cups. I travel and sleep in five star hotels and dine in fine restaurants. I no longer wait for my husband. I adopt a daughter with big round brown eyes and shiny dark pigtails tied with pink ribbons. Her skinny arms encircle my neck as she kisses my cheek with a touch so soft and light. I name her “Dare” and teach her to live life and to not wait for a husband.

The Loss of Mom

My role in the family was decided early in my life. Should anything happen to my mother my eldest sister was to run the family. Should my sister be unable or unwilling to do so the responsibility fell to me. Knowing my position was comforting. Now I don’t know where my place is and my mind is floating. Two major events caused this change. The first was moving across the country at the young age of 26 and staying way for 35 years now. The second was the brain injury. Taking care of myself is problem enough. My family had a huge birthday party for our mother every five years. Everyone, all the children, in-laws, grandchildren and great grandchildren came home. The gathering was always beyond fun. For my mother’s 90th birthday I hesitated going home because my health was so fragile due to the brain injury. I wasn’t sure that I could stand the chaos with so many people. My therapist told me to go off by myself when I needed. I am so glad I went home. This was my mother’s last birthday. Two weeks later the terrifying call came. My mother was rushed to the emergency room and moved into intensive care. I made the trip home to see my mother for the last time. My sister, Mary, was helping our mother into bed. Mary asked me to help. My mother said I couldn’t do anything. That’s when I realized I no longer have the same role in the family. I have no idea what it is now. My Mother died a little over three months later; just four days after my 60th birthday. The lost of a mother cannot be explained. There are no words to explain the loss one feels. There is a year of firsts. The first Valentines Day, Mother’s Day, her birthday, Thanksgiving and Christmas. I saw the perfect gift for her for Mother’s Day. I actually went in the store to buy the gift. Then I remembered she wasn’t here anymore. I keep wanting to call her to talk or to seek advice. I talk to her every day. I think of her every day. I mourn her loss every day. I miss her every day. There are no words to explain the loss of a mother.

About Four Years Ago

Drums continue to beat as they have for the last fifteen minutes; for the last 10,000 years; hypnotic, sensual, carrying across oceans. My eyes shut to let their wave pass over me; breathing deeply; swaying slowly. After an introduction I move onto the stage, stand in front of the microphone, close my eyes in a brief prayer, take a breath and let my voice sore dipping to scoop low notes and twirling on the high; telling the story of a people lost to slavery. My two loves, music and African American culture, are combined into shows I write using music and original verse. So much was happening; changing; my life continually blossoming. Four months before for my 40th birthday I returned to college to complete my undergraduate degree, then masters. At 51 I earned my Ph.D. After 22 years of working as a housecleaner, a nanny, a daycare and preschool teacher, a waitress, and a medical receptionist, I was reborn as a university professor and administrator. Still music, singing, would not remain quiet in my soul. I sang for the joy it brought me; hoping the same was true for audiences. I began to write shows to perform with my brother accompanying me on African Drums. We traveled to colleges, high schools, conferences, festivals, and more teaching the history and culture of African Americans. For a few hours I was transformed; living and telling of a different life. Now at 57 I am retired. I packed up my five bedroom house and moved into a 21 foot RV. Again reborn, I am a lone woman traveling with three small dogs to see the country and to attend as many music festivals as I can. I am doing what my mother has advised over my lifetime, “Just enjoy life.”

Sunny in Seattle

Sunny and warm in Seattle, who could ask for more? With sun comes energy, so I completed chores I’ve been avoiding such as washing the car and continuing to prepare the yard for planting. To be honest most of my yard is concrete. There is a little strip in the back where I plant grass for the dogs. I even blew some Dandelion puffs there because Gina likes to eat the flowers. How she chooses the ones she’ll eat is a mystery. Some she’ll put in her mouth and then remove without breaking them from their stems. She’s such a silly little girl. Charlie doesn’t bother much with grass or flowers except to mark on some of them. In the front of the yard are roses in large pots. This year I’ll have pink, deep yellow, white, red, pink trimmed with red, and a fiery red and yellow. Other flowers will join them as the weather improves. This spring and summer are predicted to be warm and sunny. No complaints here. I keep saying I would like one day where my head feels right. Just one day and I’d sore to the moon and back. I’d read two books in a day and take three long walks. I’ll clean my entire little house at one time and sit outside searching for eagles and their nests close by. Just one day when my head doesn’t feel stuffed with cotton and in need of more sleep. Sigh. I just started the course “Building Great Sentences” through great Courses. The first lesson was rather dull as the professor filled the time explaining what would be covered and why. No need to take notes yet. Will write more this weekend.

Come sit under my mushroom. The rain will not hit you there. Icy stares will not reach you. And we’ll talk of sunny days in the springtime and of walking barefoot along a river bank and of dancing fairies and green light footed elves.

Women's Minds. Bodies and Spirits

Women’s Minds, Bodies and Spirits I am going to address all three of these topics with one important point, one seemingly impossible task, as women we do everything for everyone, that is, except for ourselves. We work, go to school, raise our children, help others to raise their children, care for our husbands, and seniors and care for our homes. We are leaders, helpers and mothers in our churches, serve on committees and do community work. At night we do not “fall” asleep, instead we pass out later than the other members of our households. And in the morning we rise before anyone else in our house. We are sleep deprived. We make sure everyone else has enough to eat before we eat and if there is not enough we go without. We find money to send our children on school trips and to go to movies yet we wouldn’t dare spend what little money we have to do these things for ourselves. We beam at the accomplishments of our husbands and children while we think our own are insignificant. We keep going even when we are sick. We put off seeing a doctor until we can schedule a time that does not inconvenience anyone else in our lives. We are care givers – not care receivers. We do not take care of ourselves. We do not let others take care of us and for this we pay a heavy price. My mother, who is soon to be 90 years old and the mother of 10 children, fits the above description. She raised her children and put our needs and wants before her own. She cared for her husband for almost 35 years until his death. She was “Mom” to all of our friends. As a registered nurse, she worked full time at a convalescent home. She never took a vacation, hung out with friends and never went to a movie. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized that sometimes when she sat at the dinner table with only a cup of tea, saying she wasn’t hungry, that there was only enough food for her children to eat. After everyone was in bed my mother would start the ironing. I have no memory of ever waking up in the morning while she was still in bed. She was usually in the kitchen or bringing up a basket of wet clothes from the basement. However, there was one big difference, one thing of importance that I later studied in my mind. My mother managed to take time for herself. How? How could she possibly have found time for herself? My mother had small methods of self-care. When we were little she had quiet time. She would show us on the clock, before we could even tell time, where the big and little hands would be when quiet time was over. Then she would lay down with the baby and we would be quiet until the hands on the clock were where they were supposed to be. When we got older she found other ways. One of my favorite was her announcement from the top of the stairs, wrapped in her bathrobe, that she was taking a “bauth.” Now a “bauth” is very different from a bath. During a bath we could knock on the door to ask a question or complain about what a brother or sister had done to us. We might even have an argument in front of the bathroom door waiting for our mother to holler to stop. But during a “bauth”, which was always a half hour long, we would have to be dead or dying to knock on the door or in any way disturb her or we would end up with a soar behind. This was Mom’s time. Another thing my mother did for self care was to dust the top of her dresser. This may not sound like self care but it was. The top of my mother’s dresser was a space filled with so much stuff including her comb and brush, gifts we had given her, bobby pins, photos and all kinds of things. I would sometimes sit on her bed and talk to her while she was doing this. I watched her as she picked up and dusted every item. It was different from the way she dusted the rest of the house. I would feel calm just by watching her. I remember sometimes we kids would be sitting downstairs and someone would ask, “Where’s Mom?” and another would say that she is dusting her dresser. We all knew that meant she’d be a while. The other thing my mother did was to go shopping. I don’t mean spend money because we didn’t have much. She liked to roam through the stores downtown. “Just looking,” she would say. She knew the stores better than the people who worked in them. So this mother of 10 found ways to take time for herself though it seemed impossible to do. For our mind, body and spirit we have to take care of ourselves first or we cannot take care of anybody or anything else. Set aside a few minutes a day or a week – just for you. It is not a selfish act. We need and deserve it. I remember a comic strip where a man gave his wife a lock for Mothers Day. The wife looked confused until she learned that it was for the bathroom door. The last frame showed the woman sitting on the floor with a big smile while her husband installed the lock. Install a lock on a space of time and take care of you.

Some Problems of a TBI

Today I got lost in the mall that I’ve walked nearly every morning for over four years. It wasn’t as frightening as the first time I got lost there. That time I didn’t even know I was in the mall. After a few minutes I realized where I was and what I was doing there. This time I at least knew I was in the mall and why. I just didn’t know where I was in the mall. I figured it out pretty quickly. Not knowing where I am happens once in a while thanks to my TBI. Fortunately I am able to figure it out quickly. But during those few seconds or minutes I am frightened. I just keep moving until I remember (except the first time at the mall.) Another challenge of my TBI is my memory. When I am introduced to someone I forget their name as soon as it is said. If I see a person out of context the person is a complete stranger. My memory, or lack of it, does save money. I can watch the same DVDS over and over before they become familiar. They are whole new shows for me so I don’t need to purchase new ones. An interesting problem is I hear music when none is playing. I can’t begin to tell you how many times I’ve gone to turn off the radio when it wasn’t turned on. I used to hear phones ring but that has thankfully stopped.

June 2009 Living the Dream

A wish, a dream, a desire, a longing; “Just enjoy life,” my mother told us, her children. She sometimes reminded us that life is too short; words no younger person, to whom life seems endless, understands. To them there is no thought of the end of hanging out with friends, of parties and dancing into the sunrise, of stuffing themselves with hamburgers and French fries washed down with chocolate milk shakes and of always being together. But as 60 draws near there is suddenly a realization, a need to rush, to dust of old dreams before the last chance for them to come true passes. With the approaching of 60 comes anger at having spent years punching clocks and trying to please people who cannot be pleased, keeping your mouth shut so the rent can be paid and food put on the table, and of judging your success by what you own. Sixty brings memories of fun and opportunities missed because of some warped idea of adult life. There comes the realization of watching life slip away while a feeling grows in the pit of a now bigger stomach. You, as I, fear growing old dreaming and saying, “I wish I had.” I am taking the plunge to reach the dream I longed to be my life, the one I did not want to face at the close of my life saying, “I wish I had.” This is a risk. This may make my life crumble and leave me with nowhere to live and nothing to live on. Even worse this may keep others from riding into the sunset towards their dreams. Instead, I hope to inspire others to let go, take the risk, the leap and let themselves fly. My first life of travel was not a choice but a way of life for my family with my father dressed in a crisp uniform standing tall, straight, and still. My mother made wherever we were home so only the location changed and every place with welcoming adventure was the best in the world. Sundays were days of driving, looking at our new city and state, making up games using license plates, and looking out with childish excitement for ant wildlife that ventured into sight. Perhaps this early life engrained the need to travel, to see skylines of different blue and pink hues, to sit in grass to hear fiddles and violins send notes twirling into the air, and to talk, oh, yes, to talk with strangers to become friends never to be seen again but always remembered and introduced in new conversations. My dream is to travel this magnificent country in an RV. My dream is coming true. These are the tales of my travel as they happen. Some will be exciting and interesting. Some will be dull and uneventful. Bits of my life will be woven in between. Of course there will be many stories about my traveling companions; three spoiled little dogs that some may say are my children. Eddie is a Cocker Spaniel adopted 10 years ago from the pound. Being blind and deaf now has not slowed him down much. Princess, who lives up to her name, came into the family from the pound two years ago. She is about 10 now and runs the house. One year old Charlie joined us last November after being in a foster home with small dog rescue. Here we go into the sunset, living my dream.

In an Instant

A tear slides down my cheek as I make the long ambulance ride to the emergency room. If I could talk I would say not to take me, but the only part of my body I can control are my eye lids; one blink for yes and two for no. I have made the ride so many times the EMTs know me by name. I know I will be asked the same questions by the doctors about stress and anxiety and will be given the same diagnosis (pseudo seizures) and will perhaps be asked if I want to see the hospital counselor. Six and a half years ago I suffered my fourth and perhaps most significant head injury while in Connecticut to celebrate my mother’s 80th birthday. All ten of her children, along with in-laws, ex-in-laws, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and play relatives were there for the fun. The night before the party I went with a brother and sister to hear another sister perform with her band. In an instant my life changed. I was later told that two men had gotten into an argument. One shoved the other who knocked into me while I was on the dance floor. I remember moving in slow motion, falling to the floor and rolling onto my back. To me the whole event lasted less than a minute. To those around me, protecting me, I was out 10 minutes. Plagued with seizures, intense headaches, and neck pain, I began spiraling down into a deep depression. Projects were left unfinished. I would come home from an unproductive day at work, lie on the couch watching reruns of reruns on TV, and sip wine, hoping to feel – to feel anything. I went to doctors, psychiatrists, counselors, and alcohol treatment; yet I kept getting worst. While in alcohol counseling I watched a film about Dr. Amen’s work on diagnosing brain problems. There was one picture of a brain scan of a woman who had suffered brain injury from a concussion. “That’s me!” I thought. I nervously drove to one of Dr. Amen’s clinics in Tacoma, Washington, a five hour drive. This was my last hope. I thought if they could not help me no one could. I planned to end my life as it was no longer my life. I didn’t recognize the woman in the mirror. Previous doctors had dismissed me as depressed, stressed, and had seizures to get attention. Dr. Clements at the Amen Clinic read my brain scan results along with the paperwork I submitted. I wanted to cry when he told me I suffered a brain injury. Finally someone was listening to me. It still took a couple more years to get help. By then I was barely functional and felt hopeless. Now my health is improving although I don’t expect the real Nancy Nelson to ever stand up.

Sometimes ya just gotta say something.

A friend posted this on my FB page today about his experience in an Office Depot. He spoke up as we all should do. Sometimes ya just gotta say something... So today I went a bout some silver sharpies. I went to the Office Depot on Sleater Kinney Rd. in Lacey wa. Before, during, and after I was looking for the right ones I was being followed and spy'd on by store employees. Got to the front and it was slow so a new employee came out to open a new line (a mixed kid named Jose, who also happened to be the only minority) I got to jose's register and I asked for the manager. I was gonna let him have it. Then changed my mind. Like, "naw, it's not that serious". Then I saw him login to the register. His login was NIGGER1234. I saw this and politely asked him, "is that your login?" He said, "yeah, one of my old managers assigned it to me. I wish I could change it". I said can I speak to the manager please... I didn't have to wait. I turned around and saw a fat white guy watching me and turning red in the face in the printer section. I walked over and let him have it. What I noticed on a glance ended up being this kids daily hell. Tomorrow I'll be back to inspect what I expect. Jose better have a new login and I'm taking this to the national office. Sometimes ya just gotta say something.

Challenges

One of the challenges of a TBI is being able to complete a project. Though this is not true all the time, it is enough to be frustrating. Look at the blog as an example. I tucked it away for a few days despite my vow to write for at least 15 minutes a day. Crochet projects are in various forms of completion. The business papers I so diligently began gather dust with no hope of when/if they will be completed. And there are the days when I can do little more than lie in bed because I have over done some house or yard work or concentrated too long on a paper. At these times my frustration peaks at the little I can now accomplish during a day. Cleaning my RV space has been very challenging. I completed one small section at a time over a period of weeks. In my defense the sun hasn’t been out too much lately. When I write I want the story to flow as if it was music, the ups and downs and the circling in the air of the strings. I want that back. I want to rescue my way of writing from my TBI. I won’t give up. Writing was a major part of me. I would cry but the medications I take prevent me from crying. Without the medications all I do is cry. This is now my life – taking joy in each accomplishment no matter how small because a few months ago I couldn’t do even that. I was invited to attend a concert today followed by dinner, one of my favorite nights out. The thought of being out and having to converse with someone set me into a panic. I would rather stay at home with only my dogs. This makes me very sad.

Loneliness

Loneliness I am having a difficult time meeting people. Since I no longer work or hang out in the evenings I have no one here to call a friend. Added to the challenge is meeting someone with similar interests. I am lonely. Days come and go, each one the same as the other. I reach out my hand to touch another but no one is there. My phone stays quiet as the TV drones on. Somehow I have to change this. So far I’ve tried volunteering and a couple classes. Next month I will start a class on writing your life’s story. That should be fun and interesting. Concentrating for two hours may be difficult but I’ll stick with it. I’m still looking for a volunteer opportunity that fits. If I could stay awake past nine and could stand to be in a crowd I would have more opportunities to meet people. Unfortunately, since my TBI, being around large groups of people sets me to panic. Not a night has gone by that I don't get at least nine or ten hours of sleep. This is so different from before when I loved to be in the mix. It takes time to understand, get to know, and like the new me. I just know I'll be awesome!

More of May 2009

The Preparation Continues Alternating between packing the house and setting up the RV continues. A male friend asked where I would put all my things in the small RV. I answered I would increase the storage space, to which he asked, “How?” I laughed. As an avid shopper I am “out there.” I know everything in most stores. I also know all the storage solutions not requiring tools. (Tools and I do not get along.) Into the RV came plastic boxes with drawers, metal baskets hanging over doors, and holders with suction cups that cling to glass and tiles. Small white wire shelves doubled the shelf space in cabinets. Then the RV was dressed up with doilies and colorful dresser covers made from shelving paper. At night I envision where items will be placed the next day. The target date is now the first week of June. Emptying the house seems endless. The ARC of Spokane (a charitable organization) did a second pickup of boxes today. I am thankful they pick up. Boxes are supposed to be left on the curb. Mine made it as far as just outside the door. I pushed and pulled them up and down the stairs and out the door, running out of breath and sweating long before the last few boxes are outside. The men never complained as they carried the boxes two or three at a time. A student walked through the house last weekend, selecting items for her new apartment. There is so much stuff! I think many Americans have too much stuff. Downsizing feels good. To be hypocritical, I bought a couple new CDs. I won’t live long enough to play the music I have. Still, there are songs I remember that will not leave my mind; so I buy them to learn the message they hold. “He’ll Be Back” is a song released by the Players in the 1960s. My older sister’s group would cry while mine, four years younger, would hold each other closer. The song tells of a letter a girl’s boyfriend receives and “now he must join the boys in Vietnam.” The song assures her he will return “with victory in his hand and you’ll be proud that he is your man.” Listening to the song several times for several days, I remember the fateful day my older brother, my closest friend, a person I had known for my whole life, received his draft notice. My world was suddenly still. There was no air left in the world to breath. Our friends joined our all night vigil on his last night trying to laugh, though the laughter sounded hollow. We knew a disproportionate percentage of Black men were sent to the front lines. We knew a disproportionate percentage of Black men did not return home. We knew many who did return from the police action were without limbs and/or were haunted by the events they participated in and witnessed in that far away land. We knew far too many men never came home or did so broken and lost. Too many mothers were left with too much grief. Too many fathers were left in a silence no one could penetrate. Too many little sisters never again saw their big brothers. My prayers go out to them. My father fought in WWII; joining the segregated army at the tender age of 17. We children were not to ask him about his experiences or play “Taps” on our plastic bugles. I remember only being told two stories of his time at war. He told me a little about the unfair treatment fighting in a segregated army. The other was that as he would crawl on his belly his buddy next to him would blowup. When morning came our vigil ended. I went to school in a daze. I envisioned my brother’s soft curly dark hair being cut off and his faded jeans being changed to army green. Then he would be taken far from me. I dreaded going home, a home without him; to sit and wait to hear word, yet afraid to hear word for however long he was gone. But he was home! 4F!; my favorite number and letter! 4F!; and they sent him home. No new letter would arrive calling him away. The air returned and the Earth stated to turn again. As my brother and I now both face our 60th birthdays (his a year and a half before mine) I think of all the fun we have had and will still have. We both moved to Washington. We have supported each other through marriages, divorces, and the birth of his two daughters. He cheered me own while I continued in school and I listened as he mastered African drumming. There have been so many adventures, so much life we came so close to missing because of a letter. My first RV stop is Seattle to show my big brother the RV and to play with my two nieces. Then I am off on another adventure and he will be there cheering me on!

May 2009

Yes, the RV is home! My new home for the next few years is finally sitting in the driveway; glistening with newness and smelling of newness! I named her “Dare,” not for daring to leave so much behind but because the name brings me the softness and peace of a new beginning. “I’ll put a pebble in my shoe and watch me walk; I can walk, I can walk. I shall call the pebble “Dare.” We talk about walking. And when we both have had enough, I will take Dare from my shoe saying, ‘meet your new road.’” - the words of a song from the musical “Godspell;” from a younger time in my life when I knew every word to every song in every Broadway (and some off Broadway) show before traveling to New Haven or New York to see the live performance. This was before musicals’ settings became so overblown and before shows looked too much alike; a time when songs hung in your head long after the show ended and you joined with strangers singing on the streets on their way to their cars. Dare is also my mother’s middle name; a name I clung to when I first saw it written, placed proudly between her first and our last name. I worried one of my siblings would be given the name, moving it further from me. But, no, Dare was left standing alone as if waiting for me. Dare, the name I sometimes call myself and feel it fits following Ayo. Ayo Dare is me when alone in my room planning my life’s next adventure. Now, Dare sits in the driveway patiently waiting. With a smiling satisfaction, I line the shelves. The stress of packing the house when wanting only to set up the RV and hit the road has driven me to bed for most of the day. Right outside is my new home.

March 9, 2014

I was angry for a long time; angry and frustrated at what had happened to me, at the men who caused my injury, at doctors and other medical professionals, at people at my job, and at myself. I have changed into someone I don’t recognize. My whole life has changed into one I don’t know how to live. Working with limitations has sent me into fits of rage and periods of deep depression. Five years after I stopped working and did little more than rest almost constantly, I am accepting myself where I am now. Fortunately my health has improved significantly although I have a way to go to be myself again and who knows for sure if that will ever happen? One challenge is memory or the lack of memory. Others are doing math without a calculator and trying to manage my checking account (Although that has improved. I haven’t overdrawn my account for a couple years.) It took a while but I can manage my medication. For a while I mixed up the pills or would take the morning ones at night. The day passes more smoothly. Then comes a day like today when I forgot to turn off the burner under a pot again. Nothing happened as I caught it in time. And I wonder why I eat frozen dinners. I just need to keep working on remembering. One more challenge.

May 2009

REALIZATION The realization has hit me that I have no income. I am afraid. Still I continue to pack the house, separating what I am keeping from what is to be sold and what is to be donated. This is an overwhelming process, downsizing from a four bedroom house to a 21 foot RV; compounded by my sizeable collections of teacups and pots, dolls, and figurines. Then there is the “stuff,” things that fit into no category. Having little to do here and few friends, my home was my project. Every corner and space was covered with color adding life and a small measure of pleasure. Just as with friendships this pleasure must be nursed and fed over and over, so I buy more and more “stuff.” Then, as a friendship or love affair may smother, so too does this obsession with collections. The obsession took over my life and I eventually lost interest yet it is still there so I continue. After packing for an hour or two, I lie in bed watching nothing in particular on TV. The TV numbs my feelings and covers my fear. My dogs, Princess and Charlie, curl up next to me, sleeping as if they had just finished a full day of work. Eddie never sleeps on the bed even though I’ve tried to get him to do so. He prefers to stretch out on the rug or curl up on his overused dog bed. Often, as I stumble in the dark into the bathroom at night, I step on him. He seems to like the coldness of the floor. Occasionally the three dogs make noises in their sleep as if they are troubled. I stroke them, wondering what they are dreaming. I wonder if packing the house worries them. Eddie has gone through other moves with me so is certain he is coming. Princess, however, was put in the pound at nearly eight years old. Perhaps she does not feel as secure. Charlie wouldn’t know of moving even though he has lived in three homes with three different families. So I stroke them through their nightmares that are perhaps about being left or put in the pound, the place that left them alone shaking in a cage. Why would someone risk everything, as I have done, to chase a dream? Yesterday a man at the dealership led me on a walkthrough of the RV. I pretended to understand what I was shown and told. While he talked I pictured where I would put things and reassessed how much I would be able to carry. I don’t understand why the interiors are done in earth tones and started to figure how I could cover everything with blue and other color accents to brighten the place. If I am to live in it there must be color. He is talking about how the shower and toilet work and I am thinking what an ugly shower curtain and how I can cut mine down to fit. I try to hide my yawn when he opens the hood and catch my laugh when shown the tire iron (or whatever it is called.) I catch some of what he is saying and I realize I know nothing about this machine I am buying. Unlike a car, I have to learn to use everything in the RV, not just where the gas is put. There are all kinds of buttons, hoses, fuses, and lines. He tells me about water hoses and faucets but not how and where to put the water. Am I supposed to know this already? Am I supposed to have a basic understanding of how this house on wheels works so he only has to show me where things are? Does he actually think I will understand the owner’s manual? Yet another fear enters my mind. Better to sleep on it. Maybe in the morning the fear will be gone. Tomorrow I will test the mini washer and dryer I purchased. For now I must sleep because I fear the washer and dryer won’t fit in the RV.

I separate the paragraphs in what I post. I don't understand why they post in a block.

Memory/But I Didn't Have Time

One day my sister, Tomaca, emailed the following story to me saying I needed to respond to a comment. After reading the story I emailed her back saying I didn’t write it. She replied that I wrote the story and need to acknowledge the comment. So I read the story a couple more times. As I read I began to recognize the rhythm and remember the true events that led me to write the story. A Traumatic Brian Injury can damage your memory as it has mine. I can forget what is said right after I hear it. Sometimes I forget what a conversation is about right in the middle of it. Here’s the story. I believe my memory and writing skills will return to me. But I Didn’t Have Time A SHORT STORY She wanted to tell me about her grandfather, a fine dark brown skinned man, a major figure in history with so much memory collected in his house, the family home now becoming a museum in honor of him, to document and display his place in American history. She wanted to tell me, but I didn’t have the time. I had to get back to work to papers piled high on my desk, to phone calls that needed to be made, and to emails that needed to be read and answered. I had to get back to the ringing phone and constant interruptions giving me more important work to pile on my desk into a dizzying mess. She wanted to tell me about her brother who, as a child, dreamed of being a concert pianist, which he did, traveling the world over to make the piano flow with such beauty tears welled in eyes. He taught college students to make piano keys dance beneath their fingers as they looked into his approving smile. She wanted to tell me, but I didn’t have the time.I had to grab groceries and stop by the cleaners to pick up my now clean clothes and drive home to cook dinner, then to write papers that needed to be written for the next day, water the roses and to nod off in front of the TV playing some meaningless nonsense and then to bed because tomorrow would be busy again. She wanted to tell me about her brother-in-law, dressed all in blue, always all in blue wearing a sparkling butterfly pin. His Ph.D. from Harvard came as a surprise to those who saw him draw deep into himself to tell stories to people lost for a time until the tales end, when he becomes himself again all dressed in blue with a butterfly pin. She wanted to tell me but I didn’t have the time. I saw her in the drugstore and ducked so she wouldn’t see me with her bright smile ready to talk as if she had all day which maybe she did but I didn’t. And then I would have to walk slowly beside her as she moved with her cane. I needed to get home to feed my dogs and change clothes to be on time for a dinner with people I pretended to know and pretended to like. She wanted to tell me about her sister who traveled world wide with her blue wearing husband, about her working as an archivist in the Harvard Library, knowing the feel of crumbling ancient papers and books neatly stored in cool shadowed rooms. She wanted to tell me, but I didn’t have the time. She seemed to appear everywhere I went, inviting me into her stories, but with work and writing and caring for a house and a yard, surely she would understand that I have to get to the cleaners before they closed. Next time I see her, I will stop to talk but my ride is waiting to get my car from the shop to run to the mall for something I wrote down to remember but lost the paper. Awaking from the sound of crushing metal and shattering glass, screams and cries piercing through the night’s stillness like a streak of lightening. She sat in her seat belt, head fallen to one side, her mind floating above her attached to nothing and no one, no breath, no heartbeat, no stories of history or of the present, no stories laced in blue with a butterfly pin, and no stories of the musty smell of yellowed papers. She wanted to tell me about scholars and poets she had met during her life, many names and rainbow faces, published works, oral histories, library shelves all bringing the brightness of knowledge and dancing, lost now in the scattered glass of darkness, all because I didn’t have time. I sit beneath a tree near where the wreck happened and stare ahead with the sun warming my face. My body relaxes as cars hurry by and I imagine her laughing eyes. Now I have time.

May 2009 FEAR

So many people spread their fear to me as they warn me of traveling alone. I find this fear to be interesting as I continue to prepare for my new home in a 22 foot RV. I have chosen a Holiday Rambler – Augusta Sport. The RV is big enough to be a home while small enough to use as a car. Downsizing my home to this bit of space is overwhelming. Am I out of my mind? If I do nothing to change the flow of leaving the security of my job, of knowing there is a check magically placed in my checking account twice a month, of the bills being paid, and having food to eat, of knowing the flow of my day; if I do nothing I will go, a woman alone, counting to ten so the fear will go away. They, whoever these authorities of my life are, warn me of traveling alone without a man to protect me from those who would harm me. Yet in my house are three dogs racing to the door at the sound of a knock and running along the fence to frighten away anyone who ventures too near. There is also an alarm set more to protect me inside than belongings when I am gone. I peer around me as I walk to the garage whether it is day or night. At the gas station I pull up to the pump closest to the store so someone can see if I am being abducted by some stranger who means me no good and will harm me because I am living the everyday life of a woman. Look for light, never walk in shadows. Be aware, always aware around you and of sounds near you and your house. Sleep lightly; walk confidently; don’t let them know you are afraid in your daily life. If I am to be afraid, let me also live. As of today, May 1st 2009, I am no longer employed; retired at 56, free, and if I think I become afraid but not of what others warn me. I fear I will become homeless, picking through scraps in a dumpster to ease the gnawing emptiness in my stomach, and clinging my threadbare clothing tightly around me, ripping one hole larger. I force my mind to pictures of moose walking through a distant rich green field in Alaska and of the excitement of touching the sleek coldness of a glistening blue glacier. I think of cheering at the folk music festival in Vancouver BC and of my head back laughing with newly met friends. Perhaps I should have a small celebration for the milestone in my life but all I can think of is being on the road, music blaring and my face nothing but a smile.

June 2009

My dream of April 2009 did not come true. I had the 10’ x 21’ RV and spent a couple weeks over packing it. I had purchased enough of some supplies to last a few years. Was I heading out to the wilderness where there were no stores? At one point I just wanted to leave Cheney where I’d spent a good 11 years with four more in neighboring Spokane. I was a mental, nervous, depressed wreck. I told myself I would die if I stayed there any longer. More about that story later. Every space in the RV was used for storage, even the tiny bathroom. I put in my three confused and worried dogs and took off for Seattle. Now, I had never driven anything bigger than my SUV, a Ford Explorer. I didn’t really understand how to use the mirror and could not see out of the back of the RV. With a nerve racking four hour drive in front of me I made my way onto the freeway. The dogs, Eddie, Princess, and Charlie, become more comfortable as we drove. I did not. The ride was uneventful. I didn’t hit anything. My first destination was my brother’s house. I spent a couple days with him and his family while waiting for my Kindle to arrive. Now I could carry books with me. Time to move. The first trip was one to Sequim, Washington to visit friends. That was fun, shopping in Port Townsend, berry picking, and eating fabulous meals displayed on plates like a work of art. The conversation was full and stimulating. I would have spent the summer there; however I needed to move on. My plan was to follow Highway 1 for as far as I could before the music festivals started. When I reached a RV park on the Reservation at Neah Bay, I thought I’d found paradise. We stayed there for a few days. Only a few RVs were there and they parked near the cabins. I parked at the other end where I could stare at the water, brilliant and blue, from a window. The dogs ran along the shore, careful not to go near the water or too far from me. My blind Eddie walked on his leash with me. On the day a heavy rain fell I baked scones and ate them with tea poured into a china teacup decorated with delicate red roses. I read every book I’d bought for my Kindle and rested a lot. I began to realize I was much too tired to drive Highway 1. I was much too tired attend music festivals. Each day I seemed to get more and more tired. I needed a place to stay and recuperate for what I thought would be a couple months, not almost four years. The RV just fit into a space in my brother’s backyard with the garage on one side and a fence on the other. Trees hung over the top of the RV brushing it almost in worship. I was not fully aware of what had happened to me since being knocked out and the lack of medical care. Right then I just needed to rest.

Spring Cleaning

Today I spoke to no one except my dogs. Perhaps I should have called someone but now it is too late. Usually I talk to people as I walk the mall, saying good morning and asking how are you doing. I talk to the cashiers in stores. Today was different. Being so hungry for spring I started spring cleaning. Before the TBI I could have finished my little house in a day. However, since I am limited in how much I can accomplish in a day I spring cleaned the bed and bath rooms.

Childhood Memory

My father was a lifer in the Air Force. The last year before he retired he was stationed in Bangor, Maine. I was in the fourth grade. A grocery store held a contest for sayings stressing being safe walking to school. I won, or I should say Dad did as he gave me the winning saying. “Stop, look, and listen or from school you’ll be missing.” Dad and I went to the store to claim my prize. To this day, I still remember the look on the store manager’s face when he learned why we were there. This was back when the Civil Rights Movement was just beginning in the South. This was back when most white folks in Maine had never seen a Negro. My father had grown up in Texas and knew the laws of segregation well. The manager quickly reached into a drawer and handed me a broken men’s watch. Then we left.