I live near a school zone so multiple times a day when I am driving to or from home there are bright red flashing letters reminding me to SLOW DOWN. In the midst of recovery, I need this reminder more than ever.
I had no idea it was possible to overdo “recovery” but where there’s a will, there’s a way. So as I zoom from one kind of therapy appointment to the next, making sure to get in quality time with the kids, help with household tasks and (on a good day) squeeze in my exercise regimen, the last thing I’m remembering to do is to slow down enough for the red to stop flashing.
Ironically with concussion recovery, slowing down is exactly what my brain needs for healing. And in the end, SLOW DOWN is probably an appropriate message for most of us in this world.
I’ve been going to an incredible vision therapist for help with my concussion. One thing I’ve learned is that to survive the world these days I need to be geared up with high tech noise canceling headphones, prescription sunglasses and a hat with a good brim. On hard days, I double up the noise canceling headphones and tune out most of the sound that the world has to offer.
At my recent appointment, I had on on my gear including my hat balancing over the double dose of ear protection. The receptionist asked if the lights were too bright. I said yes but I’m used to accommodating to it and I am geared up and prepared.
She said you don’t have to do that here. We can just make it comfortable for you. Then she proceeded to get up and turn off the lights. In the therapy room the windows were covered, the lights turned off and my doctor blocked the strong reflection on a mirror with her hand as we walked by it.
While this isn’t a realistic expectation when going to Target or picking up the kids from school, it sure is nice to have little islands in my day where I don’t have to accommodate for the environment. The environment is accommodated for me. It will be a long time before I take that for granted again.
At the zoo today one sign after another reminded us to stay on the path. Nobody told us what to look at or how fast to go on the paved route past the wildlife. There were no indications as to when to take a break on the countless benches, simply to stay on the path. It was a true reminder of my journey through healing: Stay on the path; all the other decisions will come in their own time.
Some people have hammocks. I don’t usually see people in them. One time I remember seeing our neighbor sitting in his hammock and thinking, “Ha, how odd that someone is actually using their hammock.”.
Three weeks into recovering from a concussion, I’ve been enjoying our hammock for the first time. There’s really not much else I can do. Reading is out of the question. Significant screen time makes my head pound even more. But sitting in the hammock? I can do that. I can watch the trees dance and hear the birds sing. I can see the Cottonwood pollen floating through the air like a soft snow on a summer’s day.
So here’s my advice to you. Don’t wait for a concussion to sit in a Hammock. They really are a wonderful invention, so under appreciated yet an incredible tool for learning how to enjoy the act of being.
I keep going to the physical therapist to get the adhesions broken down holding down the nerves in my leg each time the physical therapist breaks down some of the same adhesions he worked on last time.
As teachers and parents we are also held down in familiar patterns by adhesions. We often know it would be beneficial to approach fractions or bedtime routines in a new way. We succeed in trying something new. It is establishing that new pattern that gets painful.
My body is trying to heal but habits have been formed and starting a new pattern takes time, pain and courage.
It is now four weeks after my appendix, ovary and Fallopian tube were removed along with the offending 16cm cyst. My belly is no longer purple and I can do things like drive and shower without pain. Unfortunately, a slow walk to drop off our six year old at school resulted in an emergency stop at a park bench in the middle of my walk and a two hour recovery in bed with lingering pain for the rest of the day.
My physical therapist friend saw me out and texted congratulations for such a feat. I replied with moans and this is what she said, “The middle of recovery it is the hardest to appreciate both how far you have come, and how much your body will continue to heal.”
At this moment I feel as though truer words have yet to be spoken.