Severe

The Book

Introduction

This story is essentially, about the refining of the nature that is mine and banking that off of the rails that are thine. So, please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste… well, taste… well… I’m a man. Or was…

My motivation for writing (outside of the desire for wealth and fame) is not to provide illumination for the heart and soul of those suffering from brain damage, although I hope it will do that. I am writing to provide a link of reference, commonality and understanding for the friends and family of those going through the type of healing and rehabilitation that I am going through. For friends and family it is an endless, ongoing, frustrating situation, filled with both hope, disappointment and self blame.

Enduring the loss of a loved one’s former humanity is not comfortable. My friends and family lost me as surely as if my accident had killed rather than maimed. The me they knew is gone and will not be coming back. The me they have now, though it is the me I now am, is an ongoing reminder of the me who lives in their memory but will never be here again. The me writing today is engaged in an effort to become an acceptable substitute for the me that he was, and that they remember. I am learning to play the role, and as time goes on, I’m getting better and better reviews. But I am not now, nor will I ever be the he that once was me.

The satisfaction I enjoy is significant and comes at least as potently from the fact that I’m able to pull it off, as it does from any actual “recovery,” which, thank Zeus and all good vibrations, is large and still continues. However, it is me, more than my family and friends who actually grasps the soulful nature of that satisfaction. Hopefully the work on these pages will help pave a path toward a more satisfying recovery for them as well.

Chapter 1 “Oops”

“It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.”

George Orwell: Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949)

Bacon was born in the summer, in the year of our Lord, nineteen hundred and fifty-five. He hit the stage a rebel. Descending from the rebels of the Robert the Bruce era, who freed Scotland from England, restoring its independence as a kingdom. Through his veins flows the blood of the James’, (Frank & Jesse). He was a born outlaw surrounded by a sea of religion and normality. He was proud of his notoriety. By many it is said that he was Cache Valley’s first “hippie,” which may or may not actually be the case. This, it is important to remember, was a time in which hippies were outlaw rebels rather than the touchie-feelie liberal buzz-bugs the modern version has become. He happily accepted the mantle.

A parental challenge right out of the gate. Scourge of the K-12 education system, (until they kicked him out.) A biker… No, not the spandex variety. However he toyed with spandex for a time, (competition mountain biking) although he wouldn’t want me mentioning that. He was party-boy; booze, drugs, rock ’n roll, and a powerful affinity for members of the “weaker” sex, this accompanied by a respect for the fairer sex that has now passed away. Or was it thrown away? In any case modern society is working hard to turn women into men and vice versa. Above all he had, as do I, a driving hunger for adventure. At that time he could entertain his hunger on skis, cliffs, backwoods adventures, hunting expeditions, running hounds, Harley Davidsons, ATVs, 4-wheel drives, interpersonal conflicting… on and on it goes. He did things that I can only remember. I see sparkling reflections of the thrills he enjoyed. I see abnormal performance in the yoke of adventure. Reemerging memories of his past increasingly spice the sedentary life I now occupy bearing a frustrating desire to go back and dance again.

His life was a diversity of endeavors, but there was a commonality that ran through it all. He was driven by focused intensity. One of his interests was fitness. Not that he had any ambition to run a marathon, but his vision of himself was “tough hombre.” And because of his intensity, tough he was. Which is why he’s alive today.

He was nearing the end of an interest he had in religiosity (Mormon). He had recently walked away from a 17 year profession as an inventory analyst. He was anything but traditional in either his professional nor his religious interests. He was as close to self-employment as an employee could hope to be. The religious pursuit pulled strings of external control he couldn’t/wouldn’t tolerate. He was looking for a new path. An entirely new adventure. The likelihood is that he would have become a paramedic. An interest of his at which he was already engaged, being a 1st class EMT, until he stubbed his toe on bizarre reality.

He was a handful, for sure and for certain, but those around him knew who he was and what fueled him. It may have been said that his behavior was a mystery, but to him it was no more mysterious than the sunrise. Having spent over half a century challenging normality at every turn. Often risking his existence for the payoff of adrenaline and mortal novelty, his temerariousity came to an abrupt halt while doing something quite unremarkable. He was calmly minding his own business, heading home from a long day on a farm tractor when the gods of fate finally kicked him in the teeth.

My memory of his life ends with him on a tractor, cutting hay. I’ve no memory of him getting off the tractor, driving home, the accident, nor of the next 3 months. The doctors referred to this vacation as a “coma.” A “functional coma,” they said, but I can find little to verify what that actually is. In any case, I awakened each day and created the me that I would be. Pirate one day, coal miner, the next, college professor, and on and on. While I have no memory of any of this, it is said that I went through interesting phases of behavior, such as only singing (beautifully they say), or speaking in Spanish. This last was interesting since a hispanic nurse who worked with me, said I was as fluent as if I’d been raised in Mexico, but although I did speak Spanish, I was far from fluent, but there ya go.

Having been an EMT and weeks away from becoming a paramedic and a life flight paramedic at that! It was friends who arrived at the scene of the accident. His 4-wheeler had been hit by an SUV traveling over 70 mph. He was thrown 250 feet and lit on the asphalt, head first. His left leg had been torn off below the knee and the bleeding was severe. There was little hope for survival. The damage had been severe enough that it was decided to put him on a life-flight helicopter to Salt Lake City where there was a better likelihood that he could be effectively treated. The emergency doctor flew with him. On the flight to SLC the doctor officially pronounced Bacon “dead” three times. Coming back from “pronounced dead” is not unheard of, but coming back from bleeding to death is exceedingly rare. Bacon was a tough son-of-a-bitch!

Before my accident I had been suffering for well over a decade from severe panic disorder. I was an absolute classic case. I’d always been rather high strung and had suffered from panic attacks as far back as age 7. I had no idea what was happening at that age, but I was terrified of a friend I thought was trying to poison me. I don’t remember many such circumstances, but at age 22 I was managing the shipping and receiving department for a metal processing plant in Salt Lake City which did heat-treating, machining, and various types of plating (black oxide, chrome, zinc, cadmium, anodizing etc.). At one point I needed a bucket and found one in the heat-treating department. Its inside was coated with white crystals. To clean it, I dipped it in a vat of hydrochloric acid. As I was swishing it around, it occurred to be that the crystals were probably cyanide, a chemical we used in the heat-treating department. In other words, I’ve just accidentally killed myself.

What I was fearing turned out not to be the case (I didn’t die), but my anxiety had been reawakened in the form of full blown panic disorder. Within weeks I quit my job because of an intense fear of the poisons and fumes I had worked around. I’d not given any of this a second thought before. But now I was in constant fear. Wearing a respirator. Always keeping track of how far it is to the nearest hospital. Taking trips to the hospital because I thought I was suffocating. Psychotherapy, which might have helped had the therapist any true understanding of panic disorder. It all turned out to be the end of what probably would have been a fruitful career. In fact, considering the relationship I had with the owner of the company it may have evolved into some kind of partnership over time. Instead, it evolved into Bacon returning to Richmond, Utah, with his tail between his legs, and living the next two decades engaged in a constant 24/7 struggle against intense, unreasonable fear and embarrassment.

I developed strategies to deal with my fear and actually achieved some level of normalcy in which I was able to function on a high level and hide my absurd fears from most of those around me (thanks dad for spawning an adventurer). The panic attacks were still there, but I dealt with them as one might with an unpleasant brother. A resignation to the fact that the panic would be there and I have to try to ignore and live with it. Which I did, and which brings me to this:

One of the few actual memories left from my hospital stay, was my “awakening.” Recognizable consciousness hit me while I was laying in the hospital bed. There was a breakfast tray before me upon which was a breakfast I can’t remember, but a cup of coffee that I can. “What’s this?” I asked the nurse as I pointed at the coffee.

“That’s your coffee Bacon.”

“I can’t drink coffee, it makes me crazy.”

“Well, you must be completely insane, because you drink coffee every day.”

While there wasn’t much that I could recall about my past, I didn’t remember the years of dealing with panic disorder, but I did remember what panic attacks were, that I hated them with a white-hot burning passion, that I’d given up all hope of living without them, AND that coffee was a sure trigger. Yet, I drank the coffee. The blessed result? No nerves, no panic. The next day I consciously drank coffee, cup after cup all day long. No nerves, no panic, and a subliminal recognition that I’d somehow actually been born again. And so the new life begins. There IS a cure for panic disorder, get your leg tore off and your brain scrambled!

My memory of his life ends with him on a tractor, cutting hay. I’ve no memory of him getting off the tractor, driving home, the accident, nor of the next 3 months. The doctors referred to this vacation as a “coma.” A “functional coma,” they said, but I can find little to verify what that actually is. In any case, I awakened each day and created the me that I would be. Pirate one day, coal miner, the next, college professor, and on and on. While I have no memory of any of this, it is said that I went through interesting phases of behavior, such as only singing (beautifully, believe it or not), or speaking in Spanish. This last was interesting since a hispanic nurse who worked with me told my father that I was as fluent as if I’d been raised in Mexico. Although I did speak Spanish, I was far from fluent, outside of obscenity, but there ya go.

One interesting and humorous tale from the time is of a day a local L.D.S. Bishop came to visit during a phase in which I was being radically profane. Thanks to my background I had (and still have) an almost artistic propensity for the use of obscenity in the form of words. Brother (. ??? ) tried to correct me. “Now Bacon, you don’t need to use that kind of language.” Which, of course, opened the floodgates of discourse from Hell. Apparently I enjoyed it thoroughly. I really do wish I could remember!

Chapter 2 “Born Again”

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!)

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……

Chapter 3 Welcome to the New World

I function quite nicely. I’ve graduated with a BS (appropriate eh?) in Creative Writing and earned a Masters’ degree in humanities (Folklore). Working now on PhD, yep, Doctor Bacon! My basic skills, reading, writing, communicating are, if anything, even better than they were before my accident. But it seems I’ve lost a very important element of my core. The intensity is gone.

And so here I sit, having planned a new avenue, for too many years. Book to write, website to design, network to construct, but no fire in the kiln. Where’s Tony Robbins?

Having been Superman for over 50 years the world of the handicapped was a place I never expected nor was prepared to be a member of, but here is where I awoke. In a hospital bed, not knowing what happened, not remembering vast segments of my life. I didn’t remember that I was a paramedic, that I had grandchildren, that I’d sold my Harley, that my sister (best friend) had passed away. A new world indeed and not necessarily a good one.

In the beginning what I went through was perfectly typical. Somewhere between I don’t care and depression. I had absolutely no motivation, no desires nor goals. It was just a matter of sitting and staring at the TV, and making life miserable for Kimmie (what a blessing!). My stagnant existence was spiced with the introduction of memories I’d lost. More on that later. I was perfectly content in my new world, but those around me were not.

My Cache Valley family was based on the seeds planted by my grandfather who had moved from Alton, Kansas to Utah many years before. An interesting move and a true adventure. To come to Utah, the land of the Mormons, and to make that move at a time during which “outsiders” were not completely welcome in Utah.

His first job was as a pharmacist at ZCMI in Salt Lake City. My Grandfather was a Mason and wore a Masonic ring which the ZCMI hiring agent mistook for a Mormon symbol. Joseph Smith was a 13th degree Mason and there are a tremendous lot of similarities between Freemasony and the Mormon organization. Smith’s father and older brother, Hyrum, were also Freemasons all living in an area which was swept with anti-Masonic fervor, which probably had a hand in the Mormons moving across the country to a new, unpopulated area where their religioun could be practiced in peace. In any case, once it was realized that my grandfather was not a Mormon, his employment at ZCMI came to an end. Various moves ended up with Grandpa Bill living in Richmond, Utah, and owning a general drugstore there. The store included, among many wondrous things for me, including an old fashioned, authentic soda fountain and a candy store, what would later become an even bigger interest, a State Liquor Store. By the time of my accident all but the liquor store had been closed, Grandpa Bill had passed on. and my father, Terry owned and operated what was left, a liquor store.

In spite of my limitations there was enough of me left that I could run the liquor store and my father granted me the tremendous courtesy of putting me to work there, and I was good at it. My previous life had been one based on adventures I was no longer capable of, but I was still a fairly skilled social character and I could drink! It takes little imagination to construct an image of a (mentally) 12 year old boy, running a liquor store. And so it was.

In spite of the booze and endless partying, it also provided exercise for my damaged brain. During this period I also began attending University. This started out as me participating in a Graduate class designed to teach the students how to deal with the handicapped. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was there as an example of the handicapped.

So here I am, a severely brain damaged, one-legged old man beginning a college adventure, which after a lifetime of making fun of the academic world, I came to enjoy thoroughly. The result of this was a completely natural and highly effective method of reforging the pathways which the brain damage had wounded. I graduated, having earned English Student of the Year award during my senior year, and then going on to earn an MA in humanities (Folklore), and am currently working on PhD. Yep, Doctor Bacon!

And I find myself here, writing another book and putting together a website to help others who’ve been through the same, and more importantly, their friends and families. (I’m so sorry Kimmie!)

The old life is gone, what I didn’t piss away, has mostly evaporated. And, here I am in a new world with new hope for the future.

Chapter 4 The Marvelous World of Brain Damage

Brain damage is a gigantic topic! Far too extensive to try and fully illuminate here. In my case and the vast majority of others who face similar symptoms, the cause is referred to as “traumatic brain damage,” TBI. This is damage caused by an external force which causes the brain to move inside the skull. This movement can do considerable damage, not necessarily to the memories themselves, which is also possible, but far more likely, to the pathways we use to access those memories or reference appropriate behaviors. Thus the information remains, but the links previously forged to access to those memories and behavioral responses are damaged or gone completely.

Executive dysfunction is an umbrella term for many of the cognitive, emotional, and behavioral impairments survivors may experience. There are many possible results of executive dysfunction, including lack of motivation and/or initiation. Observers may see this behavior as depression or laziness, but the cause is directly relative to actual changes in the brain brought about by brain injury and is outside of the control of the victim. In my case, as I would sit in my easy chair, not caring if the TV were on or not, not getting up to go to the bathroom but rather, urinating in a bottle and not giving a hoot about the whole situation nor even being aware of the intense motivations I harbored at the time of the accident.

Those who knew me, particularly those who knew me well, knew that this was not the me they new, nor even a close representative of that guy. He had been intensely self interested, to a flaw, was on the verge of becoming a life flight paramedic working out of the first base station in Cache Valley. He was almost insanely hooked on such “hobbies” as running hound dogs, hunting over bird dogs, skiing (on an elevated level). Back in the day that what they now call “freestyling” was called “hot-dogging,” and he took 4th place in an international competition at Alta. He was 16 at the time. Water skiing, rock climbing, backwoods adventures, golfing, fly fishing, bass fishing, I probably shouldn’t mention this, but he was one of the most well known cock-fighters in the world, shooting for number one! No, he wasn’t the guy who sits in an easy chair and pisses in a bottle, but that’s who he became.

In terms of executive disfunction, one of the first apparent symptoms observers will note, is a lack of motivation. In my own case I had absolutely no awareness of a motivational lack, which was there in full force. In spite of the comments of those around me, I was weirdly contented. My previous history had been one of being too motivated! While my activities might be misinterpreted and, or misunderstood, the motivation was intense and activity would never stop. I might be wasting time on activities that others didn’t understand, but I was always driven. There would be no sitting in a chair, paying attention to nothing in particular, but that is where I was at the time.

This condition is often referred to as adynamia and is a typical result of brain damage, particularly in the frontal lobe. Symptoms of adynamia include low activity, low levels of interest, social isolation, sleeping in late, staring at the television. It my case I was perfectly contented to sit and stare at the TV for hours, not caring what was on. It is often misinterpreted as depression or just plain laziness although it has nothing to do with either. It is, however, rather important to pursue intervention because, beyond the situational waste, it can actually interfere with recovery

yep