Normal from Afar, a Doctor Reveals His Own Traumatic Brain Injury (eBook)

2
the initiating incident

The Santa Fe sky could not have been painted any bluer by one of the many famous artists geographically inspired to live there. I felt as I did when gazing into Van Gogh’s golden, sunny fields of wheat, undulating trees, and ethereal clouds.

The landscape unfettered my imagination, allowing me entrance to a fantasy world so much better than the harsh reality of medicine. The rolling mountain roads offered a retreat from the broken bones of beaten children, the suicidal mask of hopelessness on the faces of the aging, or the decaying smell of slicing into an abscess and seeing the bloody, green pus flow forth – unafraid of the light.

The mountain scenery shimmered hypnotically through the heat that seared off the two-lane road I was following. In the immenseness of the high desert, the car didn’t seem to move even when going the lawful top speed.

I was lulled into dreaming of my just completed honeymoon when the odd shape a half-mile down the road moved slowly, rattled me awake. I made out the back of a banged-up, older-model Ford pickup packed with a ridiculous amount of stacked hay. The bales extended ten feet into the air above the cab.

The bundles were tied together, creating a watchtower resembling a blurry Ogre reaching out to grab the innocent careless enough to venture too close in the fever of rippling heat waves.

I automatically switched to the faster-moving left lane before getting closer. I noticed how the hay resembled an imposing barrier warning me away. Not fully understanding the danger, I saw the first stack hit the ground. And continued to watch another fall from the top, wondering if some magical pitchfork was pushing them outward into the air. As the bundles hit, they exploded.

Bindings ripped, and dry straw popped in all directions covering the entire road. Two slid together, intact, into the middle of the highway, forming large yellow boxes that deliberately blocked my passage. Nearer, I saw the truck had stopped; the driver had gotten out to look at his cargo. Even at a distance, I could tell he was upset.

Turning, I asked my wife, “What’s all this about?” I saw the farmer attempting to move hay, haphazardly strapped into large boxes, three to four feet across. He must have brought them from one pasture to another in these high mountain fields.

“That’s crazy. This is a high pass. Dangerous as Hell. Slow down, Daniel!” She had an edge to her voice that only registered distantly. I seemed lethargic and insensible from the high altitude of the Santa Fe Hills. I was already in the left lane, not sure where to go.

She added more with a panicked voice, “Hey, slow down. Now!”

In my bucolic inertia, I did not heed the warning fast enough and could not fully brake the car.

My brain, quickened by adrenaline, ordered my arms around spastically. I swerved impulsively, inexplicably afraid of the bundles. Still braking, I pulled too hard to the left, a maneuver that barely permitted the car to rush past the hay barriers. But they seemed angry for not being able to stop me, and the scratchy box-shapes vented by sounding a barking and scraping scream all down the car’s side.

I thought the vehicle had gotten past the danger until I saw yellow straw spread out before me like a golden oil slick. The tires spun on the slippery hay, squealing high-pitched, excited warnings before growing louder into full-throated screams from the car.

The present slides into eternity when confronted with an impending calamity; time becomes a slow, freeze-frame dance. In that eternal instant, I watched as my evasive turn transformed into a long, drawn-out fishtail. The vehicle continued to carve out a winding, snake-like pattern in the asphalt hardtop, slithering toward the edge of the elevated road.

I then realized we were going to go over the unguarded highway edge. The rims of the front wheels were grabbed by the soft, long grass reaching up from its intersection with the asphalt. It deliberately flipped the car down the steep embankment – over and over for about seventy feet.

The familiar soothing rhythm of the road I’d felt through the seat disappeared as we flew into the sky and roared into heaven. My body, instantly going into shock, served me a neurological cocktail (a shot of dopamine) that propelled me outside of time, giving a slight promise of paradise.

All that followed seemed an illusion, and as the seconds ticked by, there was no need to worry about what to do next. Looking over at my new wife, I enjoyed the pleasant, hormonally induced peacefulness of an unhurried day.

Theresa was so full of details. Her long, blond hair was still shining from the morning conditioning ritual. A few strands, still damp, stained the fibers of her pink linen shirt while orange gloss sat atop her lips, accenting their pillow fullness. They were slightly parted to show what I considered her best feature: dazzling white teeth. People often found her too-perfect smile off-putting until they noticed a slight chip on one of the lower incisors.

And now, her relaxed face was only marred by the minor wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. The pink softness of the blouse, draped around her delicate neck, was held by an actual pearl button. Yes, my bride was as beautiful as always.

“Angelic,” I thought.

Only one detail told me something was amiss. It was the smallest puzzle piece mislaid, so I had to look to figure out what was wrong with the portrait in front of me. Her eyes, the same blue of Santa Fe skies, were retracted to only a tiny rim surrounding marbles of black.

My ears flooded with noise. My skin prickled with maximum sensation. My entire body twisted and turned like a shaken ragdoll. Then nothing happened as I floated away, simply vanishing into blackness.

The light came back quietly and slowly. I could see it through my eyelids. My thoughts, confused and hesitant, tried to explain what was happening. My head hung out the window, and my left arm had broken. The hand was scratched with long, red marks punctuated by miniature icebergs of glass shards. I could tell most pieces were embedded deep under the skin.

Looking in the cracked side-view mirror, I felt detached, observing the meaty, dark red lump I had become. There was no pain, only the steely taste of red blood cells filling my mouth. My irritated buccal mucosa spat them out, adding to the red color of my shirt.

Blood for women has special personal significance. Covered in the red, sticky syrup, I understood the connection. I imagined how frightening it would be to have a bloody wound visit monthly, ticking off the cycles till old age.

To those in the medical profession, blood is the marker of someone else’s tragedy when they are gurneyed into the Emergency Room – slick and stained crimson.

It could also mark a personal emergency for me: When under the bright lights of the surgical suite, a pristine body cavity pools crimson from the slightest slip of my scalpeled hand. I would struggle to find the opened artery and hold back the tide.

This was unusual; the tragedy and the emergency were both mine. I was the Patient and the non-performing professional. With this mix of feelings, I sat in the driver’s seat, passively watching the high, spurting-red arches leaking out of me – increasingly rapid cycles that marked the timing of my demise. The arc of drops marked the odometer on the number sixty-five, the speed I had pushed the car to before the crash. I felt indicted by my fluids.

Blood is usually seen a little at a time. Its bright alarming color says: “Yes, this stuff is precious - don’t lose any.” It is not a polite reminder! Thus, you can’t imagine what you’re visualizing when you look around to see what seems like gallons.

It’s like suddenly finding diamonds filling pint-size containers. The illusion is not just a clever trick when the ruby liquid is your own. Your realization brings the heart to a more forceful beating, thus sending the blood arcs higher. Little fountains of yourself are squirting away.

A ringing voice went off, the harsh alarm clock of Theresa’s voice. “His head? He has no head!” The screams emanated from the passenger side. My wife was frantically beseeching someone to find whatever was above my shoulders.

The excitement slowly roused me to bubble up from the surface of the warm, pooled red wetness where I lay. Lifting my head slightly, I could not see her. The entire roof canopy had been crushed between us like a dividing screen.

As I opened my eyes further, they were stung with what my nose recognized as gasoline. Real animal fear of being seared by fire woke me. I instantly knew the reason wild creatures didn’t approach campfires. The flame could be so painful, and it scarred so comic-book ugly.

Now frantically turning to look for a way out, I saw the rancher-truck driver running toward me through my smashed driver’s side window. His face registered increasing amounts of fright the nearer he came. We stared at each other for a split second, just long enough for me to see his lips curl upward, beginning a shocked, disgusted look. Despite this, he hugged me, wrapping his arms around me to pull my body through what had become an aperture, just large enough to allow my limp-torso passage.

The Nissan compact had lost two of the four doors we had rented it with. Not a single surface was intact. The severity of bruises, dents, and fractures matched my...