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That Ken had suffered a traumatic brain injury (TBI) became apparent when he could talk again, four or five days after the collision. Much of his speech consisted of parroting words in a sing-song voice. After developing aspiration pneumonia, he tried to cough but couldn’t cough deeply enough for relief. Smiling at him and stroking his forehead, I said, ”Bummer.” He sang back, “Bummer, bummer, bummer,” much as a toddler would.
Next, he began repeating nonsense phrases. The first was, “Happiness is, happiness is,” in a gentle rhythm. I added, “Happiness is a warm puppy,” which he chanted for a while and gradually transformed to “Happiness is a warm country.”
But as Ken began to speak in complete sentences, I grew more alarmed.
“I have to rewire your circuitry so I can manage you better,” he told me in all delusional sincerity. He claimed his staid, sevety-seven-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 software engineer) and that Scott, his chiropractor, repaired his motorcycles. One night, when he couldn’t even sit up without help, he somehow clambered over the bed rail, wandered down the hall, and fell, hitting his head. Fortunately, he incurred no further injury. The nurse who called me 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.
After this incident, Ken was placed in a Vail bed, a mesh-sided, enclosed bed that zips from the outside. Much better than putting him in restraints, the nurse told me.
Ken’s short-term memory also had been damaged. He recognized everyone who came to visit but for weeks could not recall that anyone but me ever had. His speech therapist hung signs in his room as memory aids: “I was in a motorcycle vs. car accident on December 29” and “My wife’s name is Barbara.” She also started a memory book for him, to which I added photos of our wedding, his kids, our house, and our cat, along with affirmations proclaiming good health and normal life.
During the first few weeks, even though Ken carried on long—if sometimes weird and oddly chatty—conversations, he never really engaged with anyone. He spoke animatedly, but his gaze was distant, unconnected. Although physically in the room, he was not present; he existed in some inward place, unable to transcend the damage to his frontal lobes.
Next, he began repeating nonsense phrases. The first was, “Happiness is, happiness is,” in a gentle rhythm. I added, “Happiness is a warm puppy,” which he chanted for a while and gradually transformed to “Happiness is a warm country.”
But as Ken began to speak in complete sentences, I grew more alarmed.
“I have to rewire your circuitry so I can manage you better,” he told me in all delusional sincerity. He claimed his staid, sevety-
After this incident, Ken was placed in a Vail bed, a mesh-
Ken’s short-
During the first few weeks, even though Ken carried on long—if sometimes weird and oddly chatty—conversations, he never really engaged with anyone. He spoke animatedly, but his gaze was distant, unconnected. Although physically in the room, he was not present; he existed in some inward place, unable to transcend the damage to his frontal lobes.
