From time-to-time I will publish photo essays, or my poetry, and of my life on this curios planet, Earth. Time on Terra is precious and it is a mark of dignity to record it as much as possible for others to read, or in this case see and read.
I was also restrained in the bed, tightly. I didn't understand it, not at all. I was later told it was so I wouldn't try to get up, or tear the stitches loose on my head. They didn't remove a portion of my skull to relieve the pressure from the swelling, thankfully, but I took a giant horse pill of Decadron, a steroidal hormone pill used to reduce swelling in the brain. My whole left side or my brain was contused, all my brainstem was contused, and my right frontal cortex suffered a concussion, the loss of motor control was blamed on brainstem damage, the loss of vision was blamed on the visual cortex contusion, and the right sided paralysis was blamed on a pinched nerve, meaning, in time, I would regain use of my right side. Tests even today, nearly 50 years later show a slight loss of strength in my right side. People often confuse me as a lefty, although I write and eat right handed. Still, that could be blamed on me actually being left handed, and on a video of me on super eight film, at the age of five, it shows me swinging a right handed golf club with my left hand, to many variables to say for sure why I test weak on my right side. The restraints were for my safety, and the wounds on my head were caused by my head hitting the windshield and other items as I was tossed around the truck full of tools. To this day, there's still an impression of the screw driver on my right temple. It used to be in my hairline but now due to my receding hair it's visible. I told them I was unable to stand on my own, but I didn't believe them. I made a plan. I would show them I could stand up and walk. I worked very hard to roll over and undo my restraints with my left hand on my right side. There were two attempts. The first time I failed. I got angry, but part of the brain injury recovery is wildness, animal like expression of anger. I reached out with my left arm, grabbed the heat lamp and flung it across the room, breaking it, and it made a huge racket. The nurses came in, the doctors came in, and they all stared at me, walked outside the door and had a conference discussing what they would do. They tightened down more secure. Holy shit! That didn't work well at all. Eventually I did manage to get loose. I promptly tried to stand up and promptly fell back down on the bed, face first. I wasn't able to walk. I had to do everything they said, or I wasn't going to get out of there. I managed to crawl back into the bed, somehow. The aids came in and wondered how I got out of my restraints; another meeting was held, and I was freed from them, but with a stern warning not to scratch my head.
As I started my physical therapy, I was determined to get the hell out of the hospital, and I was going to do every single thing they said. The day of my first therapy session, a nurse came in and jabbed my butt with a long needle for sensations. There was no reaction from me. Mom said, "I thought I was going to faint when the nurse did that." The first day of therapy in the hospital produced little results. I didn't make it half way down the two parallel bars. I was holstered in this contraption so the therapist could hold me, to keep me from falling, and I failed. She told me it was good for a first try. It was a Friday, so she told me she would be back on Monday to start again. "I'm going to give you this rubber ball and I want you to hold it with your right hand and try to squeeze it." I'd learned to listen the hard way. I was going to squeeze it come hell or high water. Every morning they would test for sensation. On Monday morning I was able to move my big toe on my right foot. Not a lot, but a little. I went to physical therapy and I was able to squeeze that ball, but it had not left my hand, and I made it all the way down those parallel walking bars. The physiotherapist took my Mom out of the room, and I could see them through the windows in the skywalk having a conversation. I was going home, I thought, and in another week I would be. Mom said she told her, I was a miracle. She told her that in all her years of being a physiologist she'd never seen that much progress over a weekend. It wasn't a miracle to me. I just wanted the hell out of there. I spent about twenty-one days hospitalized, from the sixth of August to the twenty-seventh, and for twelve of those days I was unconscious or semi-conscious; time doesn't fly in a hospital.
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1973, two years after the accident and headed to Eugene, Oregon. Mom is pictured left, Curt's wife Sandye is middle, and I'm on the right weighing at 210 lbs. Going into the accident I weighed 160 lbs. and coming home I weighed 180 lbs. I put on the weight because of the high doses of Decadron.
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My oak cane, some 50 years later. I gave it to my father to use in his old age, and when he passed in 1998 I inherited it, and I now use it to steady myself as I walk. I refinished it and put a new rubber cap for the heel.
