It's barely dawn and the balmy Colorado breeze is wafting through my bedroom
window. I can't get back to sleep. I know where my angst is coming from, but I don't know what to do about it. My daughter is in the hospital giving birth to her first child.
Although she is only a thousand miles away, a couple hours by plane, she may as well be on another planet. I can't get to her. To be more accurate, I was asked not to attend my granddaughter's birth. My daughter thought it would be too hard on me, and most certainly make her labor more intense. I understand but I didn't like it. There isn't much to like about the way Mild Traumatic Brain Injury affects your life.
Since my diagnosis in January 2001, after a hard fall on a ski slope, I've had to learn to accept disappointment as a way of life. The things that really matter to me, like being in the birthing room with my daughter while she delivers her first child, have to take a back seat to my disability. I hate that word. Couldn't somebody find a more palpable way of saying "you're not qualified?" The actual definition, "a physical or mental handicap, esp. one that prevents a person from living a full, normal life or from holding a gainful job," is anything but nebulous. The thing is; who gets to define "normal?" I am normal. I have learned to live normally with my "disability." Most days, that is. It is days like today which remind me that I'm not totally living normally.
I had only slept a few hours when I awoke, jolted by a very descriptive dream. In it I was vying for the enviable position of being a finalist in a reality-based TV program that awarded literary opportunists with an option to be published. As I think about it, that's a great idea (maybe I should keep this dream to myself). There were possibly 50 or so wordsmith's standing around. I recognized a couple from my writers group, but otherwise they were nameless faces to me. We anxiously awaited our turn under the spotlight on a dark stage where a lone microphone stood erect. The competition heated up as we vied for the judges approval. My turn finally came and I sashayed toward the stage wearing a black skirt that revealed my shapely figure. It was part of my plan to gain the judges attention, but probably too revealing for my age. I moved with confidence past my peers. In the background an audience cheered me on. Under the intense heat of the overhead spotlight, I theatrically presented my prose then walked off knowing I had nailed my pitch. Straight-away, I saw myself in a mirror and realized that my face appeared older than it should. I was wearily wrinkled and my chin sagged agedly. The shape of my body, toned and fit, did not match my weathered face. I felt used up, left-over, and spent. In an effort to regain my composure, I began reciting my whimsical performance, but it was gone. My mind went blank. As though it had never happened, I had no memory of the powerful presentation I had just inspirationally delivered. I woke up quivering from the nightmarish dream.
Unable to return to restful sleep, I wandered downstairs and out onto my patio where I watched the quarter moon smile half-heartedly down on me. A cool breeze had kicked up so I wrapped a throw over my shoulders and sat quietly listening to the near-dawn sounds.
Alone in the dark, I rehearsed scenes of my life from the day of my daughter's birth until now. Marking all of the high points, I smiled at no one and the whole world at the same time. The moment was surreal as I silently passed the baton of motherhood on to her. She is embarking on the journey that I took over 28 years ago.
I fretted for a while about the missing memory. Not the one in my dream, but the real-life one that I would not experience: The first sight and sound of a brand new baby girl. I'll never have it. My Mild Traumatic Brain Injury prevents me from living the "normal" life.