March 2026 Ben Heaberlin

December 22, 2024, is a day I don’t remember, but a day that forever changed my life.

What I know about that morning has been pieced together through medical records and the stories of family and friends who stood beside me. Those first weeks and months exist for me in fragments, brief memories, and secondhand accounts of what I endured while slowing finding my way back.

On December 22, 2024, I woke up like any other day. I made breakfast and was going to get ready for a Christmas party. While my fiancée, Trisha, was in the bathroom, I decided to get onto the roof to check on something. Trisha heard a loud thud, and when she rushed outside, she found me unconscious and rigid on my back. She knew immediately she needed to call 911. That quick response was the beginning of saving my life.

I was taken to the local hospital where I received a CT scan and then was immediately life-flighted to Portland for emergency brain surgery, a craniotomy. About a week later, I began to wake up. My family and friends told me they came to see me, bringing me photos and cards, talking to me even when I couldn’t respond. It hurts that I can’t remember those visits, but knowing they were there fills me with gratitude.  Their presence mattered, even when I couldn’t feel it at the time.

After two weeks, I was transferred to inpatient rehabilitation in Augusta. I was there only three days before a CT scan identified I required another emergency life flight and a second craniotomy. It felt, for my loved ones, like reliving the trauma all over again. I faintly remember riding “VIP” in the helicopter, but that memory fades quickly. I don’t recall anything else until waking up the next day, more aware, beginning to grasp the seriousness of what had happened.

Less than a week later, I was discharged home with Trisha. I don’t remember leaving the hospital. I don’t remember much of those early months at all. What I do know is that my family did the hard work of advocating for me and ensuring I received the support I needed. None of us are taught how to navigate a traumatic brain injury. We learned as we went, adapting to challenges we never expected to face.

I spent months at home participating in occupational and speech therapy, working to regain my eyesight, balance, and cognitive abilities. Every small improvement felt monumental, but recovery is not linear, and it is rarely simple.

My insurance coverage capped therapy at 100 hours. My progress stalled. I found myself at home alone for hours each day. I couldn’t drive. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t complete daily tasks the way I once had. Isolation set in quickly. I spent many days sitting by the window. I cried more than I had in my entire life. Depression crept in as I felt myself regress without consistent therapy and structure.

Eventually, my insurance was changed, and I was able to resume rehabilitation services. With that support, my mood began to lift. My strength improved. I started to regain skills and confidence. I learned how to advocate for myself, to ask questions, to push for answers, and to insist on the care I needed.

Along the way, I was told countless times that I was a miracle. I remember feeling annoyed. Yes, I survived, but survival did not erase the reality that my abilities, and my future, had changed completely. I may have been a miracle in the eyes of others, but I was also a person mourning the life I once knew.

I have learned that my sense of smell and taste are gone permanently. Damage to my pituitary gland means I will require hormone replacement therapy for the rest of my life. My energy depletes quickly. Tasks that were once simple now require planning and adaptation. My life may never look the way it did before.

There are still gaps in my recollection. There are holidays, conversations, and milestones that live only in others’ memories. That can be painful, but there is also growth in facing it.

Recovery has taught me that progress comes in small steps. I have had to set small goals and celebrate each. I have learned that survivors each have their own unique story. No two brain injuries are the same. No two recoveries follow the same path.

I have learned that advocacy matters, not only for myself but for others navigating similar journeys. Systems are complex. Insurance limitations are real. Access to care can determine progress. Families become researchers, case managers, and care takers overnight. Most importantly, I have learned that being a survivor means being resilient in ways you never imagined.

My life is different. My abilities have changed. Some losses are permanent. But I am learning, adapting, and continuing forward. Survival is only the beginning, recovery is ongoing, support matters, advocacy matter. And even on the hardest days, we are stronger than we realize. We are not just survivors, but we are also warriors in my mind.