I never thought that metaphor and hyperbole could morph into accuracy.
|Fog by the Bay|
Nothing quite like a concussion to thump home what it means to be in a fog. Or, in the act of sustaining it, what it is to be stunned and dazed. Spacey doesn't just describe the daydreaming kid in class next to you. Words no longer exaggerate. They convey reality in my post-concussion world.
|Sunlight trying to pierce through|
on a hiking trail by the Bay
For weeks now, it's taken concentrated effort to pierce through the mists. Interesting things are easier to focus on. But the mindless multi-tasking? Forget it. Literally.
It's been rather humorous to be a young(ish) person exhibiting Alzheimer's-like symptoms. And for a while, I felt humor was all I had left. During a follow-up test with a doctor to determine the extent of my concussion:
Neurologist: Name as many words as you can beginning with the letter "f" in the next 60 seconds.
Me: Ummm ... quickly editing out the first word we all know that begins with "f" ... ok, fundamental, foundation, fibula, ... nearly followed that with fistula, but figured the neurologist would think I was being facetious ... flabbergast, fiendish, furious, ... and so on
Neurologist: interrupting his own counting mid-60 seconds ... I've never heard fibula nor flabbergast mentioned in these tests before.
Me: Do I get extra credit for the quality of the words?
In truth, the only way for me to stay focused was to turn the question into a word game -- no monosyllabic "f" words!
|From the bedroom window|
Mind tricks aside, I've spent a lot of time recently lying in the dark and slowing my life down outside of deadlines and meetings. (Too bad there's no slo-mo button for Life, or even freeze frame.) Hopefully, I'll make better judgment calls next time on the ski slopes. But the post-concussion experience is rather fascinating. It's like being in someone else's body. Or rather, someone else's head.
Good news: the neurologist assures me I will get my old brain back.