All material on this Web site is protected by copyright, and may not be reproduced without written permission. Copyrights are held by Barbara Stahura. All rights reserved.
revealed itself. However, it was likely that most of the damage was in the frontal lobes, which are associated with memory, impulse control, judgment, language, sexual behavior, problem solving, motor function, and planning and executing behavior.
In the first days after the accident, as his delirium and terror lessened, much of Ken’s speech consisted of parroting words in a sing-song voice. Aspiration pneumonia made him cough, which frustrated him.
“Bummer,” I said, stroking his forehead and smiling directly into his right eye, now a little more open, so he could see I was joking, trying to keep things light.
“Bummer, bummer, bummer,” he sing-songed back, much as a toddler would.
As Ken’s speech expanded, I grew more alarmed.
“I have to rewire your circuitry so I can manage you better,” he told me in all sincerity. After I showed him how to drum on a plastic basin, to see if he could hold a rhythm, he declared his staid, 77-year-old parents were members of a steel drum band—no, wait! A plastic drum band! He insisted he had to get up and care for his patients (he’s a computer programmer) while Scott, our chiropractor, repaired his Ducati—which he insisted sat in our garage waiting to be ridden again, unable to understand it had been totaled and was in police impound as evidence of the hit-and-run accident in which he was the victim. He talked about imaginary people in the room with us. “They’re right over there,” he told me, exasperated I couldn’t see them but still smiling vacantly as he usually did now. During his first night in rehab, when he couldn’t even sit up without help, he somehow climbed over the bed rail, wandered down the hall and fell, hitting his head, fortunately without further injury. The nurse who called me around 1 a.m. said he kept repeating, “I have to find the motion. My wife and I have to find the motion.” He didn’t know where he was or what was happening. Even worse, he didn’t know that he didn’t know—a very bad sign.
(continued in What I Thought I Knew)
In the first days after the accident, as his delirium and terror lessened, much of Ken’s speech consisted of parroting words in a sing-song voice. Aspiration pneumonia made him cough, which frustrated him.
“Bummer,” I said, stroking his forehead and smiling directly into his right eye, now a little more open, so he could see I was joking, trying to keep things light.
“Bummer, bummer, bummer,” he sing-songed back, much as a toddler would.
As Ken’s speech expanded, I grew more alarmed.
“I have to rewire your circuitry so I can manage you better,” he told me in all sincerity. After I showed him how to drum on a plastic basin, to see if he could hold a rhythm, he declared his staid, 77-year-old parents were members of a steel drum band—no, wait! A plastic drum band! He insisted he had to get up and care for his patients (he’s a computer programmer) while Scott, our chiropractor, repaired his Ducati—which he insisted sat in our garage waiting to be ridden again, unable to understand it had been totaled and was in police impound as evidence of the hit-and-run accident in which he was the victim. He talked about imaginary people in the room with us. “They’re right over there,” he told me, exasperated I couldn’t see them but still smiling vacantly as he usually did now. During his first night in rehab, when he couldn’t even sit up without help, he somehow climbed over the bed rail, wandered down the hall and fell, hitting his head, fortunately without further injury. The nurse who called me around 1 a.m. said he kept repeating, “I have to find the motion. My wife and I have to find the motion.” He didn’t know where he was or what was happening. Even worse, he didn’t know that he didn’t know—a very bad sign.
(continued in What I Thought I Knew)
BACK TO Barbara’s Brain Injury Articles