I have a confession to make. I did not start this blog because I was thrilled by the idea of sharing my inner thoughts with complete strangers – I’m actually a pretty private person.
I didn’t start the blog to supplement some business venture or to make online friends – though some of you have become “Friends in my head.”
I actually started this blog because I was afraid I was going to die or lose my ability to think and communicate before I had a chance to tell my children the many things I still wanted to say to them.
The Last Straw
To be fair, I may have a little flair for the dramatic, but in this case, it was a thoroughly legitimate feeling. Some of my regular readers may know that my life changed dramatically after being hit by a drunk driver four years ago. I wasn’t catapulted through the windshield; I didn’t have my wig split, nor was I crushed under the weight of a two-ton car. I did, however, sustain a significant concussion and herniated cervical disks, among other things.
What I did not understand immediately was that the concussion was the straw. You know, the domino that sends all the rest into a cascade of twisting, toppling, shattering, destruction of all that was built. If my brain were a waiter, that last concussion was the tipping point that sent me sprawling – soup flying, dishes breaking, tea spilling, food everywhere but on the plate.
Losing My Marbles
My daughter liked to say I’d lost my marbles and just needed to put them back on the track. Funny kid. That was only partially true. At first, it started like one gigantic, tangled, knotted mess. We all understand knots. Who hasn’t had something knotted terribly and spent ages working on finding the ends, pulling line through loop, loosening, restringing, winding, and unwinding for ages. Sometimes we realize it just isn’t worth the effort and throw the whole snarled cluster in the trash; other times, when dealing with something valuable like gold necklaces, we patiently, delicately worry each piece until it is free.
The Real Last Straw
It took me a year for written words on a page to make sense to me again. It took even longer to be able to look at a piece of sheet music without feeling like I was falling down some trippy Alice In Wonderland vomit-worthy well. In fact, normal tasks were taking me so long to remaster that the people treating me told me that I needed to get used to my new normal. Through it all, I tried not to despair.
But then I got the devastating news – a doctor – we’ll call him, “He Who Must Not Be Named,” wrote three little letters in his report regarding his prognosis – CTE. I spent the next week weeping, trying not to melt, but melting just the same. I thought it was the end. I’d heard so much about this player or that one dying, only to find out they had CTE. It was all over the news.
I wasn’t ready for that – I was only just getting to a point where I was remembering the correct names for things, cooking more than one item at a time, so meals were not being served in shifts (Rice – then meat – then vegetable). I had only begun to start being able to take a five-minute drive without falling out of the car to lay prostrate at our destination, heaving my guts out. (I know – a little graphic- I did warn you about the flair for the dramatic.)
If I am permitted two straws in this story – that diagnosis was the second. It broke my heart. It broke my resolve. It broke my spirit.
Thankfully, I didn’t have to rely on my spirit alone.
The Great Comforter
Near the end of that week, while weeping once again at the thought of my imminent death, an idea so loud it was almost audible bounded into my mind, “What does he know?” It was a Punchanello moment. This man’s dots meant nothing if the woodcarver said they were meaningless. He didn’t know what was in my head – he couldn’t see. His diagnosis was worthless. I knew then what that silly doctor didn’t, God knew what he didn’t, and all things were possible through Him.
Hope For The Future
I’ve spent the remainder of the time working even harder at untangling the knotty mess in my brain. I’ve slowly placed back every book on the shelf that rattled loose in the earthquake of my accident. And now that the aisles are clear enough to walk through, I am no longer writing this blog because I am afraid – I am writing it because I love it; I have learned from it; and, in it, I can see a new future – bright, colorful, and organized like a giant tub of color-coded yarn just waiting to be knit together into something wonderful.
Thank you for joining me on this journey. Thank you for your comments and likes. Thank you for taking the time to check it out. God bless.
He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end. Ecclesiastes 3:11