Fast Forward to today...

Today, June 1, 2011. 6 more days to the anniversary that forever changed my life. 3 years ago to that date, was when I "fell". Now, with a brain injury that should've killed me, with deafness I still havent gotten used to, with forgetfullness that irritates me, and being heartbroken nearly everyday, I continue to fight on. One thing I've told my now 9yr old son, failure/quitting is NOT an option. No matter how hard life gets, at least I'm alive. At least I can now work with him in his soccer, even though I fall ALOT.
But, everyday is a battle for me. Family worrying about if I'm okay, because I spend alot of the day alone. Making sure I remember things to do that day, but not holding anything against me if I just cant get it done. The constant not hearing people saying things to me, not because I dont want to hear them, but now I barely can.
And, the broken heart, from what really happened that night. Knowing, in my heart, that I will never get justice. That he is already back out in the world, abusing some other poor girl, being even more egotistical in his abusing ways. Knowing what he has taught his 2 daughters. Praying that they somehow learn that abuse is not something they should tolerate.
I guess all of these things combined, they leave me feeling like some kind of failure. Moving back into my mom's house, I feel I should help her more, as to relieve her of her stresses. Like my friend says, even the smallest of tasks that I can do would help.
Maybe this time is just a reflection of me walking away, slowly, but sure enough, I did. In a way, I take pride in standing, saying to myself that I beat all the odds, and I changed completely for what happened. But today, and for the next few days, I, in some way, I mourn for what I could've been. Or, at least in some far away dream, who or what I could've been.
Now, at this point, I want to learn sign language to learn my way of "hearing" those close to me. I am fighting for the butterflies, that I've learned, they're not the only ones to metamorphisize. I know that I have. But, at what cost? I still wonder, to this day, if I had to lose so many things in order to walk right with Jesus. Who knows?

days go by...

Not sure when it was, the week of July 21, 2008, sometime after being home. Mom took me to my initial doctors appointments. I got a new primary care doctor, a referral to a neurologist, who ended up giving me a referral to a psychiatrist. My rehab doctor, Dr. Hayek, prescribed unlimited physical therapies, speech therapies, and occupational therapies.  I contacted the transportation department to get rides to my therapies. Transport said the days best to take me were Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays.  So, we drove to the professional building at Alliance Community Hospital, where I got to see faces I thought I recognized. We scheduled my first months worth of therapies, all three lined up in a row. I requested that Trisha be my physical therapist. She seemed tough, but very good with what she did.  I remember my mom telling me that she'd take me the first couple of weeks. But, by the time transport would step in, I'd have to be able to fully walk without my walker. That was just about the scariest thing I'd heard since I'd been home! To walk WITHOUT my walker!?! WHAT!?!?! Would that even be possible???Regardless, it was to happen, scared or not. I'd walked after the fall, but not without my walker. I still used my wheelchair when I got exhausted of walking. It gave me time to rest from the walking. But, I still had major headaches from the fall.  Most of the time, I'd sleep. Not from being tired overall, but, to me, just because.My physician at the hospital had warned me about becoming addicted to even Darvocet, which had been prescribed for those horrible headaches. So, I taught myself one of my first tests of memory; to take only tylenol unless my headaches were horendous. I knew the obvious; the headaches came from my broken skull and the broken cheekbone I'd gotten just a month or so previously. I didn't remember how the cheekbone was broken, just that it was broken, and it hurt. BAD.A week or so at home, I called my boyfriend to see how he was doing. I would hide from my family to talk with him. For whatever reason, I worried that they would hear. My mom would show so much anger towards him and I wasnt sure why. She'd try to tell me how horrible and abusive he was to me, but I didnt remember any of that. All I remembered was how much we drank together.On one specific phone call, I became slightly sceptical of how my cheekbone had gotten broken. That was my first doubt from him. He had told me it was from a female sherriff at the Stark County Jail. But...if a sherriff hit me so hard to the point of breaking my cheekbone, why wasnt a lawsuit against her filed? I thought to myself, something is not right with this. But, I didnt say anything to him.  After that call, I asked my mom about what happened...why was my cheekbone really broken? I told her I had talked to him and what he'd said. She chuckled, and told me what I had forgotten. In fact, it was HIM that had broken my cheekbone. My son, 7 years old at the time, never talked to me about what he knew. But, he talked to my mom. The weeks I was "away", the pain I constantly felt. He had even seen me get beat by my boyfriend. He even witnessed the makeup I'd wear to cover up bruises. I tried hard to remember what my mom had told me what my son had told her. Maybe it was because of how drunk I constantly was. Possibly, I had fried my brain. Or, a combination of both, the drinking and the fall. Whatever the reason, I couldn't remember. All I knew was that I could trust my mom to be my memory, until I could slowly learn how to do it myself.Therapy started the following Monday. I, using my walker of course, walked to the receptionist's window, where I met Tracy and Reta. But, they had said I'd already met them, from numerous other times I'd had therapy. I remembered therapy after I had a shoulder surgery years before that. Tracy told me I had therapy for my broken hand only months ago, but, I didn't remember that. My first therapy was physical therapy. I walked in with the walker, and I specifically remember Trisha looking at me with this VERY disappointed look on her face. Right away, she asked me shockingly, "what are you doing with that walker?" I told her that it helped me walk, because I really couldn't do it on my own. "Put that walker aside," she said with determination in her voice. I said "but..." Again she said "put that aside, I know you can walk." So, I folded up the walker, and set it against the sink in the therapy area. Carefully, without the walker, I got myself balanced. My legs were a bit shaky and spread out beyond shoulder width. I probably looked as if ready to straddle a horse, or a bull, where I'd positioned my legs. My mom stood close beside me, ready to catch me, sure that I'd fall over. Very, very slowly, I took my first step WITHOUT my walker. I focused my eyes to my feet, to very carefully make sure they were walking the right way. Then I took my next step, barely balancing myself on the other foot. My mom reached out to catch me, but Trisha waved her away. Her first goal was to get me away from that walker. I was able to catch myself without falling on the floor. I stood there, one leg awkwardly in front of the other. The third step came a little more controlled, as I figured out how to keep my balance (somewhat) in position. I began to get excited, so somehow I stepped quicker in Trisha's direction, where she caught me, because I didn't quite figure out how to stop.

And it starts at home

In truth, my memories become so vague at this point. Not like a day to day memory. I remember my brother keeping my son another night, so I could relax, become adjusted to being home. But, how could I relax? Nothing at all looked the same.
I want to think that my dad took my bags to the living room, my new makeshift bedroom. I couldn't take my wheelchair in the living room though because of the lip in between, and that it was carpeted. So, that is where I learned to perfect my "furniture walking."  I made it slowly to the couch, my new makeshift bed. Thankfully, there was a chair and the coffee table to help me walk. I remember sitting down on the couch, exhausted. I can say this: my memory is blank. I don't remember seeing my son the next day. I don't remember, really anything. Everything was like, darkness around me; everything so misunderstood and meaningless. For a moment, I wonder looking back, wondering if I even have any beliefs right now. There I was,  hair chopped off, face half drooped. I had pain in every part of my head. I had an extremely slumped arm and leg.

Enough of the past....

What kept me from posting about the past is that it is still too hard for me. I still have problems walking, I still can't run, I still can't do cartwheels, I can't remember alot of things in my life. My short term memory is still a mess. Well, with exception of everything I went through.

I am epileptic. That started before my fall. When I was 19, I had my first one, siezure that is.Then I went 10 years before having my second.  In that time, I'd had my son, gotten divorced, started getting on with my life. I was in college, pursuing my dream of becoming an RN. My second one happened in April 2008, two months before my fall.

The brain injury made the siezures horrible. My first one happened when I was alone. I didnt remember it happening. I remember getting sick and then calling my mom at work, telling her I was tired and going to lay down, instead of going to therapy. When my mom and my son got home, they pointed out alot more things that I hadnt noticed. I had major bruises on my legs. My head and arm hurt horribly. I even had bruises on my face.

My mom knew what happened. She called my neurologist and told him she thought I'd had a siezure and to do something about it. So, he scheduled an MRI and an EEG for me. At first, I thought my mom was being a major worrier.

After the tests, I actually got a copy of the MRI and the report. Looking at the MRI itself, I learned that a small part of the frontal lobe, or under my forehead, had been removed. Must have been where the bleeding was.

So the siezures continued, until this very day. I've been on a total of 3 different meds, trying to find which ones work the best. I was having them every 6 weeks. Which, thats good compared to some people, who have them several times a day! But, I've learned, that's why I sleep for hours, almost the rest of the day, after I have a siezure.

Now, I'm at 2 months without a siezure. My son still freaks everytime a noise is made in my general area. He prays nightly that I wont have one in the morning. He constantly worries about me. Which I know a good child should, but Robert seems to get obsessive about it at times.

Dave, my boyfriend, is equally worried. Those two take care of me everyday. Dave shows alot of compassion when it comes to my health. I stay at home, but he is aware, with the medicines I take in the mornings, I'm likely to be asleep by 11 or 12. I'll sleep a few hours and then I'm fine. He understands the balance issues that I still have. He understands the thoughts I can't produce words for. He understands the forgetfulness I have alot of times.

I make jokes about my balance, or lack of. I name walls, things that I have to hold onto. I laugh things off, things that I simply can't control.

Another thing I lost from that fall was half my hearing. When I broke my skull, I broke the side of my head down, through the ear drum and through the joint of my jaw, all on the right side, opposite to where I'd hit my head on the concrete.

So, almost 3 years later, I've learned a little sign language. I still haven't adjusted to not hearing on that side. I'm not sure if I ever fully will. I mean, I had hearing on that side my whole life. Now...I don't.

First day home

Mom came to get me from the hospital on June 21, 2008. I said my goodbyes to the nurses, the nurse aides, my therapists, and Dr Hayek, my rehab doctor.  I packed everything, including a walker my therapist Kirsten had gotten for me. I packed what it seemed like a hundred cards from everyone who supported me through all of the healing.  I packed a star, with a powerful saying on it, it read "Don't Quit", one that I keep to this day. I packed pictures of my son, of my niece Jade, pictures of my brother, of my parents...all memories I would cherish forever.I dont remember much of the trip home. It is still very vague to me. I do remember getting home, mom getting my wheelchair and walker out for me, and beginning the process of going up the deck stairs. Through my physical therapy, I learned how to get up and down steps, safely with my walker to my side. But, I only did that with Kirsten by my side, with a gait belt around my waist. Now, here I stood at the bottom of the steps, questioning my own ability to do this safely.
It seemed like baby steps, but slowly, I made it up those stairs. Mom behind me, my dad in front with my bags, I took a step at a time, and made it to the top. First of a billion things I'm going to have to conquer, I thought to myself.
They set the wheelchair in front of the sliding door for me to sit down on. I remember almost feeling lost. Nothing looked the same, even though nothing new had been done.....

Headed Home

My days were counting down...my therapies were getting better...I was walking with a walker, I was doing most tasks on my own. I'd still use my wheelchair away from physical therapy. Mostly, I'd be worn out. Kristen worked me hard, lol.
Laurie Ann, my speech therapist, worked on my memory. She had alot of trouble with that, as my short term memory was near non-existant. My mom still came everyday, with me to my therapies.
Closer to one of the Wednesdays, when my rehab DR would meet with all of the therapists, he got the idea that I may have problems once I got home. Mainly, the problems with drinking would return and that I might go back to my boyfriend.
My mom shared the same fears, and expressed those fears to the DR. They agreed that maybe a rehabilitation nursing home would be good for me. So, while on the phone with my boyfriend, a lady walked in from some nursing home, I don't remember her name.
I got off the phone, and watched her as she approached me. She explained where she was from, and that she'd love it if I would come down and view the facility. She also told me it'd be a great place for me to continue my therapies, in a safe and enjoyable atmosphere. I can't explain how mad I was at even the thought of me going to a nursing home! I yelled at her, telling her there was no way I was staying at a place that I knew had old people staying there! I just wanted to go home! To stay with my family! To me, I'd learned the mistakes that caused all of this....mostly, I WANTED TO GO HOME!
For a moment, I had a suspition as to who set this up. My mother. So, I called her, angry at the idea of wanting me to go to a nursing home! In my own madness, I explained to her that I learned what stupid things I'd done, that it was over, I wasnt going back to those ways! Ok, so I was furious at the thought.
For a few minutes, we argued over the idea of me going to this "home". To the point, she worried about me coming home. She, in some words, tried to explain her fears of me going back to my boyfriend, of drinking, of screwing my life up again. When I continually tried to get my point across, that my drinking days were done, that I just wanted to come home, she cried some more and hung up on me. For the first time that I can remember, my mom hung up on me.
I guess, no visits tonight from her. How could I show my mom that I was done with the alcohol? It nearly ruined my life. Hell, it nearly killed me! The weeks I spent getting my legs to work again.  The weeks I spent learning to brush my teeth, to work on seeing right again, being fed with a feeding tube, dealing with the shaved head, the pain and headaches from my surgeries...and she worried I'd go back to alcohol!!! There was only one thing I had to say: WHAT THE HELL!?!I did have one visitor that evening. Pastor Tom, a pastor at our local church. The pastor that continually prayed over me throughout  all of my surgeries, through the rehab, through it all. He gave my mom the money for gas, to come and see me. Looking into his face, there were no smiles, no reassuring looks. He only had the look of being upset."Elicia," he started talking. I sat on my bed, turned the television off. I sat there, waiting for him to say the next words. I didnt know what they'd be, but it seemed it wasnt going to be nice. "I've witnessed you going through so much these past few weeks. Seems you want to go home soon, to your mom's home." I sat there waiting for more. "But you're mom is panicking, she doesnt know where to go from at this point. She is struggling on what to believe from you, even with what you've dealt with so far.""Can I speak Tom?" I asked, with somewhat of an attitude. "Sure" he said."I've learned, these last few weeks. I cant explain all that I've learned, but I know there's a reason I'm here still. I know that God has a plan for me. I don't know what that plan is, but I want to learn more. The drinking is done, I can't explain how done it is." I start crying at that point. "I just want to go home. I mean, how do I show my mom that I have changed? How??" I was sobbing by that pont. Pastor Tom didnt move, his facial expression didnt change. "Elicia, you need to do some major changes. You need to find a way to absolutely show her that you mean what you're saying to me. You only have one shot, one chance."Pastor Tom gave me a hug, then said prayers over my head. I spent the rest of the evening thinking about what he said. My mom never called back to apologize for hanging up on me. I understand why she didnt. I, in my own way, knew why she was so scared. I remembered who I was before the fall. Cruel, drunk constantly, abused and never doing anything about it. Feeling that somehow I deserved the abuse, but never knowing why. I hurt over all of this, but I could never imagine how hurt my mom felt all these years.
I got my evening meds and fell asleep, all the while dreaming about what I was going to do.

Unkwown title....my ventings

Back at the hospital, I laid on my bed and decided to watch some TV. My phone rang; it was him.

I find it very hard to write about this time. Now, 3 years later, I know how cruel he is. I know how abusive he is, how much of an alcoholic he is. Looking back is just a struggle now...knowing too much reality about him.

I wish I could fast forward through this time, wipe it out of my memory. I wish I could wipe out the entire three years, like this never happened to me. I will never know the reason of why...I will never know how God allowed all of this to happen to me. There was a time that I was okay with it, thankful for how it transformed my life. And, in a way, I still am thankful. I wouldnt be a good mom, had this not happened. I wouldnt have learned from the mistakes I made. Hmmm, I would've probably died from those mistakes.

But, from time to time, I still find myself in a way, arguing with God. Why? Why did this happen? Had I been so wrong in life? Just...why?

And the siezures I have to this day...even though I'd had them before the fall, they are now stronger, more frequent...the deafness, the partial facial paralysis. I know I'll write more about this, I promise. I guess this blog is one of my ventings, I guess that's why the blog was named "Elicia Venting."

I know that God never allows us to go through more than He knows we can bear. But, sometimes, I find myself wanting to quit. To cry out, to even scream. Yes, I'm human...but I have days of wanting to break down, of telling God that He was wrong. But again, who am I to say that God is wrong? After all, wasn't He who pulled me out of this hell? Wasn't it Him who gave me a second chance to make things right again? Maybe my life is like a catch-22. Be thankful for what I have still, but take deep breaths over the hard days...

I know this much...I am thankful for this change in heart, hard as it is to say. I'm in a way, happier, more thankful for each day, thankful for my friends, thankful for my family, thankful just in general.

I see things in a different view now. I try my hardest not to hate or be negative, like I used to be. I now know that life is a gift, and I don't want to waste it like I'd done before. I know I hold onto each day, I thank God for that day, over and over again. I thank God for the people He's put in my life.