Before 19
Concussed classes, I‘d have lacrosse practice after school every day, executive committee meetings, Athletic Club meetings, meetings with teachers, Middle School Peer Leading, and much more. I normally can’t sit still for five minutes, so sitting at the counter in my kitchen, watching my babysitter making herself a turkey burger, then eating her turkey burger, then deciding I wanted a turkey burger, then waiting for my mom to drive to the store to buy more turkey meat, then watching my babysitter make me a turkey burger, then eating the turkey burger, is killing me mentally. I’d rather run a marathon than sit at my counter for an entire day. I feel like I have regressed to my childhood; it’s as if I became Benjamin Button. My daily routine, when this first happened, was like that of a newborn. I would eat, nap, take an occasional class, go on a walk with my mother, and that was about enough to wipe me out. Now that I am back at school more regularly, I still cannot make it through a full day without going home and resting my brain, even taking the occasional nap. I’m almost certain the last time I took a nap I was three years old. The simple idea of sleeping during the day makes me feel useless and stupid. Is there really nothing else an eighteen-year-old high school senior can do but sleep? It doesn’t seem right. It makes me angry beyond belief. My anxiety over this is compounded by the fact that I feel I let so many people down—my lacrosse team, Executive Committee, my teachers, my friends, my family. I want to be better for myself and for them, and I so badly want to be doing more than doing nothing. Dammit, I wish I was the one behind the computer screen right now typing this paper, not my mother. But no, I can’t do it. The eye movement and concentration that is required of me to look at a screen or track words on a piece of paper is still too much for my concussed brain to handle. Just as I thought things were going well, and I had gotten to an exciting and transitional phase in my life, I got derailed. My independence, which I pride myself on and probably have since the age of five, has been stripped from me. Yes, things are slowly coming back. I am able to drive again, I can attend school and certain functions on a limited basis, and I can begin to have fun again with my friends. But I am not myself. My head hurts every day. Simple tasks can still exhaust me. It's the end of my senior year and I want to be at school enjoying the time I have with my friends. But it's difficult to be in an environment that's so upbeat and loud and happy about growing up and moving on, when all I can think about are the things I still can't do.
Concussed
By Emma Shepardson I am really lucky. I grew up in a privileged town in a privileged family and not often did I have to worry about the big things. I did not have to worry about whether there would be food on the table the next morning. I didn’t have to worry about being able to continue my education, and I didn’t have to worry about having a place to sleep at night. Looking back on it now, I often took for granted the little things, such as reading a book, watching TV, and working on a computer. Three months after my eighteenth birthday, I fell. I don’t exactly remember how it happened, but one moment I was having fun with my friends during lacrosse practice, and the next thing I knew I was on the ground, on my back, gagging on my mouth guard. I remember opening my eyes, and my three coaches were around me. I shot up, I spit out my mouth guard onto the turf and started coughing. I felt like I was going to throw up. I started walking, and then everything started to spin. I felt like there was a layer of tissue over my eyeballs and nothing was where it was before—everything seemed off and blurry. An hour later I was diagnosed with a major concussion. Two years before this, yet again during lacrosse practice, I got hit in the head. Even though I was out of lacrosse for a week with a minor concussion, I went back to school the next day and every other day after that without a problem. This time was different. For a few days, I rarely left my dark room. I was told not to look at a TV, computer, a phone or anything with a screen. I was told not to read. I was told not to drive my car. And I did not want to do any of the above, which is pretty odd for me, seeing as I normally do three of those things at the same time. At first, I was fine with this alteration to my daily life—I was so tired, I was sleeping most of the time, I didn’t feel like doing any of these things. Over a week later, once I got back to school, the frustration set in. I can't perform simple, daily routines without getting a headache. I can't live my life the way I am used to. I come home from school in the middle of the day with a piercing headache, and am unable to do anything except sit on the couch and stare at my toes for nine hours until I go to bed. Then, I wake up and repeat the entire damn process again, so far for six weeks. Pre-concussion, I was incredibly active on a daily basis. Aside from my 50
Before 19
Concussed
No one understands what I am dealing with because I take a shower every day, put on my clothes, put on my makeup, and look like Emma Shepardson. I am not in a wheelchair, I do not have casts on all four limbs, and I don’t look injured. But I am not myself. I try to overcome the pain; I try to do things I know will make my headache worse because I feel as if I am being judged for doing nothing. What did I learn from this unanticipated blow to the head? I learned that I really like being a student; I like working hard; I like to be busy. I’m the kind of kid who genuinely enjoys sitting in class and learning, or reading the front section of The New York Times cover to cover each day. Doing nothing does not suit me well. I’m not good at relaxing. Isn’t it ironic that the only way to feel like myself again is to go against my very nature and rest?
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