Dusting Off The Cobwebs

Life interrupted. That's how I've felt over the past six months. Last November I suffered a serious concussion playing basketball. The referee didn't even call a foul. Where's the justice? The body blow to my head sloshed my brain enough to make it near impossible for me to function on a cognitive level. It was like someone had kicked up all the dirty scum from the bottom of the pond and it sort of hung around for months, clearing up just enough every once in a while for me to think I was getting back to normal.

Man down.

Yes, that's how it was. Locked in the tower of my home for 2 weeks before I could even handle something as basic as a quiet and brief conversation. Phone, TV, my children . . . it was all more than I could handle. Everything made me sick. It was almost three months before I even dared venture back to the office for work. My brain got saturated so fast, that I couldn't handle anything that required serious thought for more than a few minutes at a time.

Don't make me cry.

Okay, I finally get it. Women don't have to have a reason to cry. Cry all you want. I did. The first four months of my recovery were filled with random moments of pure emotion that spilled out my eyes, sometimes for no reason at all. I was starting to wonder if someone had slipped me a heavy dose of estrogen during one of my hospital visits. Thankfully, order seems to have been restored in that department.

Will I ever be normal again?

Who knows. What's normal? I'm working 40 hours a week now and have been for two months, but I'm only in the office 3-4 days a week. I'm trying to bump that up to 4-5 days a week. I still get dizzy every day and nausea seems to be my new best friend. I've been wearing sea band bracelets, but I have no idea if they're really helping. I've also been wearing a Halter monitor for two weeks to figure out why my heart's skipping beats every time my pulse goes up--as in walk-up-a-flight-of-stairs up. My energy/strength levels have only recovered to about 70-80%, sometimes a little less depending on the day. And the brain drains are still happening. Doesn't that sound like fun? It's a weird way to describe it, but that's what it feels like when it happens: like my brain is draining out the back of my head. When that happens, I get sick pretty fast. I was in the ER three times two weeks ago when it first started happening. The whole unknown thing can be kind of scary. All tests revealed nothing. Hey, I guess I'm normal.

It's all in my head.

Yes, that is what I'm coming to believe. I'm pretty sure I've been having some serious anxiety attacks--classic post concussion syndrome stuff.The muddy waters are still settling. I think I'm still cognitively bumping into logs or rocks as I swim through the foggy haze of my brain. The good news is that most of my life activities have returned to a new normal. I'm working. I'm writing. I'm throwing ball with my boys. I even started a major remodeling job on my home. I know,  probably not the smartest thing, but there's no going back on that one--not after sawing through two walls and ripping out two door frames.

Dusting off the cobwebs

So alas, here we are again, not that anyone is reading because I've been gone for months. Hey, I know, you can only wait around so long. But I'm back. And I've resumed the re-write of my novel, The Lackawanna Prophecies--Howie and The Prince of Greed. I'm working on chapter 18 with about ten more chapters to go. I was supposed to be done in January. Perhaps I will be--next January. I'm just grateful to be writing. I hope you are too.

Inspiration

As much as I love writing, sometimes I just need to be inspired. Spending last week at Lake Powell with my wife and friends did that for me.

One of the highlights of our trip was visiting Rainbow Bridge, the largest natural bridge in the world. There's something magical about the awe and grandeur of nature. Getting away, and especially to a place like this, rejuvenates me in a way that nothing else can. I felt twenty again (don't I look it?).

The creative juices are flowing again.What gets you going when you're fingers are plodding instead of flying across the keyboard?

Imagine My Fear

As a writer, I often find myself drawing upon life’s experiences, even in a fictional world. Today, I'm sharing with you one such example that bristles the hairs on my arms when contemplating what could have been.
----------------------------------

My wife had major reconstructive surgery on her abdominal wall this past week. When we passed the three day mark, she expressed a desire to take a shower before having to go back to see the doctor.

Mistake #1: not taking the recliner into the master bath.
When we unzipped/took off her compression garment, from her knees up to her chest, the pressure change caused her to be light of head. I quickly helped her sit down on the edge of the bath tub. That was when she passed out in my arms and started convulsing. It was not violent, just a lot of involuntary body twitching that scared the hell out of me.

Mistake #2: locking the bathroom door so the kids could not come in.
I didn't dare try and move my wife for fear of hurting her. She has drainage tubes coming out of her lower abdomen and sutured stitches spanning hip to hip. I yelled to her mother to come help--only she couldn't get in because the door was locked. Imagine my fear. I couldn't lay her down. I couldn't stand her up. Her face is ashen white and she won't respond. My mother-in-law is trying to bust the doors open, and I'm trying to revive the love of my life. My lips lock over hers, but her mouth won’t open. I call her name over and over again, but she doesn't answer. Her limp arms hang at my side. I wonder for a brief moment if this is it—if this is how it ends—and then everything inside me screams no! I slap her face with my free hand, desperate to wake her up. The bathroom door explodes open as her mother hurls herself through the double doors with the aid of my younger son. She grabs my wife’s shoulders and sinks her cold fingernails into her skin. Joy speaks. After almost two minutes of eternal silence my wife speaks, even if dazed and confused. I squeeze her tight and never want to let go.

Critique Group

Tonight, I am hosting my first official writer's critique group. I can't wait.  It's me and three women. Wish me luck.

Vanity Dreams

What's a guy supposed to do? I recently discovered that my name in the blogspot world was no longer being used, so I snatched it up and changed my blog URL. Apologies to my three followers--ouch, did I just say that out loud? Perhaps it’s all a pipe dream, but I like to think that I'm making progress towards being published, so vanity dream or not, I'm here to stay. Happy reading.

I'm Addicted to Words

There is no doubt about it, I am addicted to words. I'm not talking about your word of the day type obsession, although that’s pretty cool too.  I'm talking about the act of taking innocuous words and crafting them into meaningful prose, sentences joined into paragraphs that can make you laugh or cry or rip your hair out in frustration. I love to write, and anyone serious about writing must put pen to paper or fingers to keys with regularity. So here I am at one in the morning, probably making no sense at all, but writing none-the-less. That’s what happens when I play basketball at night; it takes me forever to fall asleep, so I write. Although my addiction to words goes much deeper than just writing. Do you know how many times a day I open my e-mail account hoping to see an e-mail from my brother and current editor in chief? I won’t tell you, but it might classify me as obsessive compulsive. I hope to hear those three beautiful words in my head every time I check—you've got mail. Confession--I've never had an AOL email account. I just love the idea. But it’s not just any mail I’m looking for, it’s my brother’s detailed responses to the chapters I send him week after week after week. Occasionally I get an EXCELLENT or VERY GOOD, and I break out into my victory dance. But even when the page is covered in virtual red ink, I’m never discouraged because it fascinates me to read my work through someone else’s eyes, especially one whose eyes have been expertly trained to read, dissect, and triage the literary work of others. It also helps knowing that I have VETO power, although, I have to admit I rarely use it with the Z-man at my side. Yes, I’m addicted, but remember, some addictions can be good, so for all you word freaks out there--this post's for you.