Zombies, Stepford Wives, Hot-Air Balloons and My Traumatic Brain Injury

This past week I've felt so listless, tired and disconnected that I've likened myself to everything from a zombie to a Stepford Wife.

I realize, however, that both identifications are wrong because of two critical elements: anxiety and fear. I'm not an expert on zombies or Stepford Wives, but I don't think either of those fictional creatures experience these particular emotions.

As I write, I'm not quite sure where I'm going with this. But maybe that's the whole point: I'm not quite sure where I'm going with anything right now. I feel suspended in mid-air, not sure where or when I'm going to land.

Several years ago, a friend of mine and I went to Colorado Springs on a girls' spa trip. One day, we woke up at 5:00 a.m. to drive out to a big empty field for a hot-air balloon ride. I had never been up in one before, but I wasn't really nervous. I think I was too tired to be nervous.

In any case, we stood in the cold while the balloon was inflated and we were given instructions and rules. With the balloon full, we climbed into the basket with 8 or 10 other people and off we went. Right now, I don't remember a lot about our ascent, but I do remember being in the air.

Even with a coat, hood and gloves it was cold. My feet were freezing. But the land below was beautiful. It had snowed, and as the sun was rising, the snow and frost looked golden and sparkling. If people were talking, I don't remember. It seemed so quiet and peaceful as we were carried by the wind.

And then just as I was enjoying the peace and quiet and my ears felt like they were going to freeze off, there was a sudden burst of noise and heat as the pilot started the burner to keep us aloft.

It was startling, breaking the silence and peace, but also warming as the heat was so close that my frozen ears felt like they were melting. The heat never reached my toes though, and it was such a strange mix of comfort and discomfort, ease and uneasieness, silence and noise.

As we started to descend, we were reminded that landing a hot-air balloon can be bumpy and unpredictable depending on wind, weather and other conditions. There was a good chance our basket would fall on one side. We were told to brace and hold on tight. As we got closer to the ground, the bottom of the basket stayed level, and we sort of skipped and bumped a few times across a frosty field until we finally came to an upright stop. Relieved and exhilarated, we all got out and headed toward the van to take us back to our starting point.

I tell this story not to wax poetic on my personal memories, but because it reminds me of the "ride" I'm on right now with my traumatic brain injury.

I was never afraid of slipping on the kitchen floor and fracturing my skull, just like I wasn't afraid of taking my first hot-air balloon ride. People take hot-air balloon rides all the time and never get hurt, just like I had walked across the kitchen floor hundreds of times without incident. But then accidents can happen anytime, anywhere, whether we're afraid or not.

Although the conditions were right for a relatively smooth and ultimately safe landing in the hot-air balloon that day, they weren't on my side the day I fell and had my TBI. But, as I've always believed, everything happens for a reason. Since I'm still here today, I have to think there's a reason for that, too.

I can't help but feel that my hot-air balloon ride and my journey through my TBI are similar. There are a lot of things I don't remember about both. Each "ride" has given me ups and downs, moments of quiet pondering broken by sudden flashes of noise and heat that startle and frighten me.

With my TBI, the quiet moments can be good or bad; moments of peaceful reflection and gratitude or of depression and sadness. The "noise" represents - and often is the source of - my anxiety and fear. The "heat" is the confusion, pain and bewilderment I feel.

Then there's the pilot, or in my case, pilots: the doctors and therapists that give me the care and treatment I need. They give me instructions, guidance and relief. They also have a way at times of lifting me up like the pilot in the hot-air balloon did when he'd start the burner to keep the balloon aloft.

Where I am right now is the tricky part. I'm still aloft, but I'm not enjoying the ride, and I fear the landing as much as I fear not landing. My feet are frozen so that I can't seem to move forward; and, in any case, I'm in a basket in the air with no where to go. My frozen ears get relief from time-to-time from the heat of the burner, but that relief also causes a different kind of pain that makes me have weeks like this one.

Right now I'm in that purgatory where I imagine Stepford Wives and Zombies would reside if they could feel emotion and pain.

I know the treatments like the spinal tap on Monday and the doctor's appointment on Thursday to analyze other complications will give me long-term relief and help, but right now I feel both numb and overly emotional, drained and yet reluctant to ease up on myself. Basically a web of contradictions that just numb my brain even more and make me feel useless and impotent.

Something deep inside me (not to mention my husband, family and good friends) tells me I'm not useless and impotent. THEY tell me, and I know it's true, that I'm too hard on myself and expect too much at times, but I want to do more and be more. I want to make a difference in my life and in the lives of others.

I don't want to be stuck in a figurative hot-air balloon. I don't want to think of myself as ridiculous imaginary creatures without control over their own brains or any brains at all!

As I wrote earlier about the direction of this post, I'm not quite sure where I'm going. Like this post, it feels like almost everything I'm doing right now is extemporaneous and leading to who knows where. But I think I'm doing the best I can, and perhaps the things I've written here make sense to someone else, and helps them know they're not alone.