His rehab team warned me that impulse control is often a casualty of TBI, and Ken was no exception. Still weak and in danger of falling, he moved too quickly for safety. He gobbled his food. I became a nag, perhaps too protective but terrified of another injury. I reminded him again and again to slow down, be careful. Stubbornly, he refused, brushing away my concern like a pesky fly. Once, I cried in frustration, fearful that he would choke on huge forkfuls of dinner. He simply looked past me with distant eyes and continued bolting his food.

A month after the accident, Ken developed a pulmonary embolism and was transferred from rehab to an acute care hospital. One morning, he called me from there. “I don’t know where I am,” he whispered. “I think I’ve been kidnapped by foreign nationals.” I stood in our kitchen, phone to my ear, stunned. Just yesterday, he had sounded so normal again. Where was the man who had looked so intensely into my eyes as he said, “I do”? Smart, articulate, an enthusiastic reader, an excellent computer programmer and woodworker, the real Ken had disappeared, replaced by someone who looked just like him but was missing essential ingredients. Should I have applied for his Social Security disability, as his case manager had advised? Would I forever be his caregiver, exhausted, frightened, and missing him?

I wanted more than anything to look inside Ken’s brain, to see what the scanning machines could not, to find his lost self among the blasted neurons and bring him home. I researched TBI on the Internet, read books about it, and found many chilling and many encouraging stories about survivors. I pestered Ken’s doctors and therapists with questions—Would Ken’s brain heal? How much? When? —but of course, no one could provide the answers. There was nothing to do but move through the days.

When a reason for hope appeared, I clung to it—the first time Ken hugged me, remembered our phone number and called me at home, recalled a visit from neighbors the night before. And when hope lagged, I read reminders I’d hung around our house: “Relentlessly Optimistic.”

Two days before his homecoming, my husband made an omelet—perfect and golden—just as he used to make for us every Sunday. All by himself. It was part of his occupational therapy. I took photos, the last one showing Ken standing in the rehab kitchen, proudly displaying his creation. We ate it for lunch. Later that day, he couldn’t remember the word “omelet.”

Nine months post-accident, Ken still fights headaches and fatigue, and fears he’ll always be wobbly on his feet. His memory is better, although the right word often eludes him, but he still wrestles with once-easy tasks, thanks to damaged cognitive functions. He has sold his two remaining motorcycles, returned to work, and vows he won’t abandon himself or me by giving up. Nearly released from the riptide, my husband, resolute and a little scared, struggles to free himself for good. When we vacationed along the Pacific Ocean, we walked the beach every day. I watched Ken cheering the surfers cresting their waves, and I silently cheered him, praying his determination would be enough to return him all the way to shore.  

BACK TO Archives