June 2023 Beverly McLean

The day has come for me to write “The Story.” The story started many years ago when my son Gary was 22 years old. He is now 53 years old. You may wonder why I have chosen to write about this now, so many years later. Have you ever buried something and you never wanted to deal with it ever? Well, it deals with you, and now I need to tell my story.

I was living in Connecticut at the time, and it was a beautiful February morning when I received word that my son was injured while riding a snowmobile. My brother, who came to the nursing home where I was working to give me the news, had a hard time making me understand that the accident was serious. He wanted me to come home, but I wouldn’t go with him because, if I did, I might find out that my son had died. I was completely numb, in denial, and on automatic pilot.

When I arrived at Eastern Maine Medical Center (EMMC), it was so hard to see my son lying there with wires sticking out everywhere. I was completely overcome with emotion and nearly fainted. The waiting game had begun. Would Gary live? How long would he be in a coma? Could he hear me? I had so many questions.

Gary was in a coma for several weeks and was a patient at EMMC for six months. Every morning I would call the hospital to see how he was doing. Some mornings a nurse would share updates with me, and some mornings I was told they could not talk to me. I moved back to Maine to be ready for when Gary would be released and start rehab at a local hospital. I was hopeful I would be able to see him, but that did not happen. I was told by Gary’s father and stepmother that if I tried to visit or send cards, they would take him out of rehab. My request to have a priest pray over Gary was also denied, but I later found out that one did come and pray over him.

Now, 32 years later, Gary lives in Florida with his father and stepmother. He relearned how to talk, walk, and care for himself, and he now drives and has his own truck. He likes to do airbrush designs on baseball hats and tee shirts, and he is very proud of what he can do.

Many years after Gary’s accident, I had my first experience with my own brain injury. While at my job at Wal-Mart, I was on my break and received a phone call from my doctor telling me that I had had a stroke. I didn’t understand what she was saying. When I asked her to explain, she said that I had a hole in my brain. It was not the news I wanted to hear, and I don’t remember the rest of the conversation. A vascular doctor later explained that I had a lacuna infarct, which occurs when an artery that supplies blood to the deeper portions of the brain becomes blocked. He said I might not have any issues for many years, but it may affect me as I age. I am almost 77, and I think I am there.

In addition to my stroke, I fell in my icy driveway on my way to work and a large lump formed. I decided to go to work anyway, figuring I would be safer around people. Then, in 2016, I fell down a flight of 12 stairs while babysitting and was diagnosed with a traumatic brain injury. A few years later after attending a brain injury support group meeting at the hospital, I walked down to the pond to take some pictures of the ducks. As I prepared to take a picture, I stepped back, not realizing there was a ledge between me and the roadway. I fell and remember my head bounced twice. I lay in the road for a while, but I’m not sure how long, and then I stood and walked to my car. I asked a man nearby if he could help me, and he told me I looked like I was coming from a crime scene—I hadn’t even realized I was bleeding. In the emergency room, I had 12 staples in my scalp. I had imaging done, but no one mentioned anything about a concussion or traumatic brain injury.

My last injury was 3 days before Christmas in 2021. I went outside to get my mail, and when I came back in and was taking my boots off, I fell and hit my head on my Canadian glider. I was weak, and my head was spinning. For the first time in my life, I was scared. This hit to my head felt different than the others—there were no lumps or bumps—but I didn’t feel well. I was scared, but not enough to seek help. I mentioned the fall to my doctor, she just asked if I felt stable now. With all of my brain injuries, I feel like I never got any feedback about what to do after head trauma. My father also died from a brain aneurysm.

I guess the only thing left for me to say is that if you have a chance to attend a brain injury support group, go. That is where you will hear from other brain injury survivors. Every brain injury is different, and I think most newly brain injured folks don’t know that they will make progress. There are people in these groups that share their stories, and their stories will give you HOPE.