Janet Hinz

Four years ago, I woke up feeling like I’d had a great night’s sleep for the first time in weeks. As I said that to my husband when I walked into the kitchen, he looked scared. Then I heard it in my voice. My speech was slurred. Having spent nearly 20 years working as a college instructor and even teaching public speaking, this was highly unusual and upsetting. A quick look in the bathroom mirror revealed the right side of my face was sagging. I looked as if I had a stroke. Without warning, I had impaired speech, lose of muscles impacting my ability to eat, drink, distorted hearing and I couldn’t close my eye on the affected side. A frenzy of appointments with general practitioners, ENT doctors, ophthalmologists and a wonderful neurologist over the course of the next eight months revealed that I didn’t have Bell’s Palsy as originally thought, but Ramsay Hunt Syndrome and Trigeminal Neuralgia. I didn’t learn that I had also suffered a Traumatic Brain Injury from my amazing neurologist for many months even though I knew something was also very wrong with my brain. After so many doctors telling me I’d recover, or I’d learn to live with it if I didn’t, one doctor even recommended I have my eyelid sewn shut, this neurologist’s frank assessment felt like a relief. Finally I had been validated that the changes to my appearance that were obvious to everyone were just as significant as the one to my brain.

I hid it as much as possible to spare myself embarrassment and the concern of loved ones. People couldn’t see that when I was making a high school graduation poster for my daughter, I was unable to figure out the order to put the letter stickers to spell her name. I knew I wanted to make a fruit salad and had the fruit, but couldn’t figure out the next step. How was it that I kept messing up making boxed brownies? When watching TV, I’d need to stop and rewind several times to grasp a concept. Other times it felt impossible to discern language—was this show in English or Spanish? I’d been an avid reader often finishing a novel a week, but re-reading a favorite book like A Gentleman in Moscow was no longer a pleasure because the story made any sense to me. The fear these changes caused me rivaled my physical pain. Plus, I knew they worried my husband and children. Trying to hide how my brain felt broken was not often successful.

After six months of rest and many traditional and Eastern medicine interventions, no recovery beyond regaining my ability to close my eye, I yearned to work and be of service. While I could no longer teach college courses, I could help as an aid in a three year old preschool. This work brought great joy and has helped my brain recover. Three year olds have no filter and unlike well-meaning adults tell you exactly what they think. “Is your face broken?” I respond with “Yes, one side of my face doesn’t work.” Acknowledging that was enough for us all to move on with the important work of developing fine motor skills with coloring, putting together puzzles, helping to zip coats, learning to skip and gallop. Doing these things with the children in class was not only a joy—I was in many ways undergoing, occupational and physical therapy while helping children. For me that was the key element. I wasn’t in an office doing what I would have considered meaningless (although I acknowledge important) tasks. My helping the children, helped me tremendously. I love it so much that I continue to work there and now help design curriculum and serve in other ways.

I incorporated many other therapies into my daily routine in my time outside of the preschool classroom that have also significantly contributed to what my neurologist confirmed is a real recovery. Neuroplasticity is real and I continue to follow research in this new passion.