The National Center for Injury Prevention and Control estimates that 1.1 million people in the United States sustain a traumatic brain injury (TBI) every year.  Of this number, 50,000 die.  Another 235,000 are hospitalized, and the rest are treated in an emergency room and released.  But discharge from the hospital is not an indication that all is well with TBI victims.  Population-based studies have found that people with TBI have an increased risk of death by suicide 3-4 times greater than the general population—a fact that reflects the many ongoing challenges TBI survivors face.

Today I can be seen roller-blading six miles along the waterfront, swimming at the athletic club, or doing Pilates with precision—none of which was possible 10 years ago—thanks to wonderful caregivers, helping me fulfill my passion to be a little better every day.  Fifteen years ago, neither my caregivers, nor I, would have believed that I would be able to swim or roller blade; neither was even a goal.  My goal was to be a little bit better every day—until one day swimming became an option.  A couple of years later roller-blading became an option.  Both were difficult.  Both took incredible patience on the part of my caregivers, supporting me one step at a time.

We can help our injured veterans and other accident- and illness-survivors by modeling the courage to accept their current limitations.  We can support and encourage their efforts to strive to improve each day.  We can join them in celebrating each hard-won accomplishment.

There is no training in our educational system about how to support our loved ones who are physically different, just as there is no training on how to be the best survivor that we can be. So we all must learn how to be ourselves around those who are “different,” just as we must learn to accept ourselves when we are the ones who are “different.”  We must learn the patience to allow ourselves and others to be the best that they can be.

A key: Acceptance, like forgiveness, is easier to talk about than to achieve.  I’ve learned that even though we may think we have accepted our “new normal,” or our present reality, life has a way of showing us where this is simply not the case…where we have more “acceptance” work to do.

True acceptance is not approval but it is the only starting point for real transformation. Just as an alcoholic can only begin to recover by accepting that he is indeed an alcoholic, so too our recovery from traumatic injury begins with accepting the reality of our current condition.  Unwelcome or hateful as it may be, it is the starting place for our “new normal.”

 Life ever after: You, the survivor, are isolated—stuck at home, surrounded by your limitations, which may seem overwhelming.  Never having traveled this road before, you may lack the faith and confidence that seem necessary for you to build a new “life ever after.”  Your family may feel the same way. “Will this work?  Can I do this?”  You may all be asking yourselves similar questions.

I invite you all to try the same answer:

My story: On a crisp January day in 1965 when I was 15 years old, I was released from Bon Secours Hospital in Grosse Pointe, Michigan.  My parents and I were celebrating—my father and I in the front seat, my mother leaning forward from the back seat to wrap her arms protectively around me every time we crossed an intersection.  I had survived a car accident, a depressed skull fracture, and a coma.  I had not been expected to live.  If I’d lived, I had not been expected to regain consciousness.  If I regained consciousness, I had not been expected to function.  I had invalidated all the prognostications.  It seemed that everything was OK.

When a survivor moves to rehabilitation, he or she may feel hopeful about their prospects for recovery and grateful that their condition is not as bad as others they see around them.  They may feel empowered with the new skills and abilities they acquire each day.  On the other hand, they may feel angry and frustrated that they have to relearn skills that once were automatic, or that their progress is not as rapid or as steady as they expect.  Occasionally they may be overwhelmed by feelings of injustice (“Why me?”), hopelessness, and despair.

My story: As my awareness increased I listened to the stories of what had happened to me andbegan to assemble what memories I could from the coma.

Although I was paralyzed on my left side and my right arm was in a cast, the fact that I was conscious meant to me that I was heading back to “normal.”  Although I couldn’t speak clearly, I wasn’t troubled by it.  My mind knew what it wanted to say; the fact that others couldn’t understand me wasn’t my problem!  I wanted my glasses so I could see.