Severe Brain Damage

The light of “normal” mental capacity actually turned on at a little over 3 months into his hospital stay. Dim lights they were, but it was, of a sudden, an “Oh look! he’s back.” situation. He didn’t remember that he was a paramedic, that he had grandchildren, that he’d sold his Harley, that his sister (best friend) had passed away. The room filled with doctors, each one adding his price of admission to the bill. His official doctor began asking questions. which had been asked numerous times before, but this time Bacon’s reaction demonstrated that there was indeed somebody home. Yippie! 

Rather than the doctor audience, it seems to me that I should’ve been the one getting paid. After all, I was the one putting on the show. A performance so marvelous that it was decided I should be released and sent to some sort of “rehabilitation institution,” where I could learn to walk and talk and behave like a “normal” human bean.

Outside of a few random image flashes and abbreviated recollections, my actual memory of that hospital situation passed long ago. I do remember one day being strapped down to a gurney. I have no idea why, but I was strapped down tight and the staff seemed to be entertained my my misery. I was left in this condition all night, strapped down, unable to move, to go to the restroom or anything else. At this point I began believing with a whole-hearted passion that certain hospital aides were planning to kill me, and I had what I believed to be very convincing evidence of this. I was mystified when my family refused to come and rescue me, which I did fervently beg them to do. Now, over a decade later, I comprehended the absurdity of my fear, and the logic behind their doubts, but I’m still not entirely convinced that I wasn’t right. It was a dark and curious time.

The newly awakened Bacon was something less than the doctors’ and nurses’ idea of an ideal resident. They quickly decided to send me not to another institution, but home to my family and friends, God bless their precious souls, and as rapidly as possible! It was disastrously horrendous to my wife Kimmie, but a very good thing for me, because I was concocting a plan to steal a scalpel from the nurses’ station and use it to kill the orderlies I knew were planning to kill me. I’m not violent by nature, but this was the level of my fear.

All of this leads up to my motivation for writing this book. Although it had been determined by my doctor, and the medical periphery (who all included their bills, “affordable health care,” I suppose), that I was now indeed me. But the undeniable and irrefutably true fact of the matter is that I was not. Not even close. Nor am I now, these many years later. I never will be. And that’s alright with me, but it needs to be explained to those around me who are less comfortable with the situation than am I. 

Accidents can bring on amazing changes in ones perspective. I’d never given any thought to brain damage until well after my own diagnosis. “Severe brain damage.” I’d heard about it, but I didn’t care. I had friends I considered to be brain damaged. But rather than being problematic, they were in fact quite entertaining. Yes, and so am I.

At the tender middle age of 51, I was suddenly, accidentally, introduced to a completely new lifestyle. This gradually led to a whole new perspective on human nature in general, and mine in particular. Yes, my brothers and sisters, I have been born again! 

Appropriately enough, my rebirth took place in the LDS hospital in Salt Lake City. Although for three months they referred to me as being “unconscious,” I was functional, but functional on a bizarre level. I’ve no memory of it, but I’m told I interacted with visitors. Recognizing them and calling them by name. Sometimes talking about events that I remembered from the past, sometimes creating fantastic absurdities. 

During this time I went through various interesting phases, including speaking nothing but Spanish. I did have a basic grasp of Spanish, but according to a hispanic nurse I spoke it fluently. Singing (beautifully according to all reports), Long streaks of obscene language (embarrassingly vivid and graphic, according to a visiting bishop). Drop ins by spirits of friends and family who had already entered the afterlife. I fervently wish I could remember those visits, but my memory is limited to the telling of those stories, and even that aspect is faded to the point that I can’t say for sure I wasn’t making it up. However I did mention aspects of a visit with my Grandpa Bill, who my grandma claimed visited her after his passing. I wasn’t aware of the details of her story, but my description of his visit was just like hers… [place eerie music here] 

It is here that the social aspect of my reappearance enters the game. Before this time I was gone. Recovery was a hoped for proposition but it’s likelihood was small. The imaginations of those who knew me were now filled with the idea that “he’s back.” A one-legged, brain damaged Bacon, but the Bacon we all knew and loved ‘er something! He’ll go home, learn to walk, and everything will be peachy, keen and groovy! 

I’m not aware of the circumstances, but it was decided that I should be returned home rather than being placed in a halfway house [phew!!!]. This was probably best for the therapists and workers who ended up not having to work with me, but I recognize now that a tremendous amount of progress could have been gained through properly administered therapy, which even now, many years later, I’ve yet to see. I’m sure it was entertaining for the foster kids we still had at home, but it damned sure wasn’t the best thing for my wife!

The question became, what can we do to make the recovery easier and most complete? The major difference between their thinking and mine, lies in the fact that I didn’t really know nor remember the me that they believed me to be. I didn’t care that I’d lost a leg. The rest of what I’d lost, I wasn’t even aware of. I remembered home, and desperately wanted to be there. I’d heard talk of a halfway house to which I may be sent, but could recognize no logic to support such an absurd notion. I began to see all those around me as oppositional forces. I was unaware of what I’d lost, thus had no interest nor concern with getting any of it back. I knew I had a child, but I didn’t know that he had children nor could I remember who he’d married. I did know that he had refused to come rescue me from the prison I was in, and that he didn’t believe in the danger I knew I was facing from personnel at the hospital who I knew were planning to kill me… Yes, imagine the excitement of being responsible for this magnificent marvel! (Sorry Kimmie!)

I’m not aware of the circumstances, but it was decided that I should be returned home rather than being placed in a halfway house [phew!!!]. This was probably best for the therapists and workers who ended up not having to work with me, but I recognize now that a tremendous amount of progress could have been gained through properly administered therapy, which even now, many years later, I’ve yet to see. I’m sure it was entertaining for the foster kids we still had at home, but it damned sure wasn’t the best thing for my wife!

The born again aspect of this “recovery” becomes quite interesting at this point. I literally began passing through, at an accelerated pace, another growth and maturation startlingly similar to the one I went through in the 50s, 60s and 70s. Although this go round I did have excellent communicative skills, my behavior was quite infantile. I was aware of the fact that one defecates in a toilet, but I simply didn’t have the ability to hold it in, or recognize when it was coming. Thus I would often mess my pants. It was not at all my intent. I was mortified by it! But like a baby in a crib I would find myself with my pants full of feces… Glory glory hallelujah! Oh, it also turned out to be an aspect of the brain damage. More on that later.

Back at home. Comfortable and happy. Which is certainly more than I can say for those around me. My motivation level was minimal. The intensity that had driven me for a lifetime, was so far gone it wasn’t even remembered. Instead of a burning drive to get up on my feet and back to the challenge of life and the pursuit of adventure, I sat in a chair and slept. I urinated in a bottle rather than getting up and walking 20 feet to the bathroom. 

I began to read the frustration of those around me as a desire to see me gone. Which, in spite of their denial of that, was entirely sensible. Whether it was actually stated or not, I’ve a memory of being told by the person that I love most, that I was the worst thing that had ever happened to her. The biggest mistake she’d ever made, I agreed (and still do). I approached actual recovery by running away from home at the tender young age of 12 in a 52 year old body.

My refuge became a liquor store owned by my family and which I had the capacity to operate. Yes, imagine a bearded, long haired 12 year old running a liquor store and you are imagining me. It was magnificent! Literally and surprisingly this did finally prime my engine for progress.

I found myself surrounded by people to whom I was less a reason for pity, frustration, or shattered hope, than a curiosity. You have to admit that one who has experienced such a radical turn of events in life, who instead of peddling a bicycle, riding a Harley, packing a backpack, or scaling a cliff, is now sitting in a wheelchair and tapping on a computer keyboard, is cheerful, friendly and quite verbose, would spark a few questions. It was precisely this new type of interaction that sparked and rekindled the old flame of adventure. I had damn sure been on the most magnificent adventure yet, and now people want me to talk about it! Which, in spite of my timid, humble nature, I’m perfectly willing to do.

The born again aspect of my recovery proceeded quite naturally, but at a highly accelerated pace. As I type this I am now somewhere in the neighborhood of being a 21 year old in the body of a 70 year old man. Which is actually a delight (other than the dating aspect). I’ve acquired some sense of responsibility while losing little of the youthful enthusiasm for life. I can no longer participate in physical adventures; the hunting, climbing, racquetball, or even walking, but I can drink you under the table and tell 60 years worth of well polished tales of mystery and adventure in the process. I’ve been down this road before, four decades ago, and I’m getting better at it.

I didn’t recognize it for 7 years or so, but I’ve been traveling the path of a young man. Partying, drinking and carrying on to the same radical extreme that I did in my early teens. It was at the pinnacle of this period of youthful exuberance that……