On Brain Rest

hilary final i hope
With Téa, during our summer of Cognitive Brain Rest.

 

Even though this photo shows her on my back, the truth is, I piggy-backed on my daughter’s two months of cognitive brain rest.  And what I got out of that delicious summer of CBR with Téa was life-changing.  

First of all, I needed it.  My twelve-year-old daughter had been unconscious for fifty-six hours in the hospital, and the bedside vigil for us, her parents, was like being put in a rapid aging machine.  When we were leaving the hospital following her miraculous recovery—five days after she arrived by Life Flight and we did not know whether she would live or die, be permanently brain damaged or recover—I saw a cute elderly couple across from us in the parking garage elevator.  I thought they looked a little banged-up by life, but like whatever they’d weathered together had clearly created a bond. Then the elevator doors opened, and the couple vanished. Because it turned out they were a reflection. Of us: of me and my husband. We were forty-six years old.  (This may be obvious, but I was sleep deprived, in an altered state, susceptible to mirage.)

I promise I know that OF COURSE Téa was the one who really needed cognitive brain rest, not me. Severely concussed, injured internally and externally, she had a lot to recover from. She was required to follow the CBR regime for two full months, July and August, avoiding anything that could strain the brain. No reading. No devices. Television limited only to half an hour a day of non-violent, non-plot-driven shows like Animal Planet, and cartoons for pre-schoolers (which we watched, cuddled on the sofa, and actually enjoyed.)  Plenty of rest. And plenty of crafts—which were soothing, engaging, but in a non-cognitively demanding way. Téa’s brain needed this. And she needed someone to enforce the CBR protocol, to monitor her, and to be there in case she bumped her head or got jostled in any way—which would have put her severely concussed brain at risk. So I hired myself. I took a leave from my work, as well as a financial hit from having no income—which was made worse by my excessive spending on crafts supplies. Gimp. Shrinky dinks. Clay. All manner of paints, papers, glues, glitters. Beads. String. Clasps. Make-a-plate kits. Rainbow sharpies to sign Téa’s waterproof cast.    

I am not what you’d call a loll-around kind of person. (Except when I have Seasonal Affective Disorder. In the dark winter months, I only want to get out of bed for a few spoonfuls of almond butter, then slither back under the covers.) Before Téa’s accident, I had been careening around in a minivan from home to office to soccer field. From orthodontist to piano recital to office again. From school play to vet to grocery store to dance recital then back to the grocery store because I realized I’d left a full bag of groceries in the cart in the parking lot. Periodically leaving town to visit my parents who were going through a crisis due to my father’s own medical calamity. In short, I was your basic semi-strung-out working-part-time mother in the sandwich generation.

But that summer of brain rest, I learned to slow down. Really slow down. We floated. Literally. Téa was not allowed the exertion of swimming, so we floated on swimming noodles and rafts, in pools and in ponds. We watched clouds. I am getting teary as I write this because the experience was so precious. So sacred, to be granted not only the miracle of my daughter being alive and fully her same hilarious companionable self again. But also, the gift of living from my relax-and-respond parasympathetic nervous system for a sustained period of time. I wish we could all have this — not the emergency-induced part, but the chance to reset our nervous systems, our experience of moving through the world. It changed me. Not that I don’t still whip around like an over-extended maniac operating out of my sympathetic nervous system from time to time.  But I had the privilege of sinking so deeply down into my parasympathetic nervous system that it beckons me, always, to return.

21 thoughts on “On Brain Rest”

  1. still can’t believe what you all went through, thank God Tea fine, so glad you had that sacred precious time together, so nurturing, so nourishing, so healing for you both- thank God Tea fine – incredible

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  2. Beautiful stuff. I was reading about PTS/D vs. PTG. Had never heard of “PTG” before last week. It means “Post Traumatic Growth.” Powerful concept. One your blog just brought right on home.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I love this idea of Post Traumatic Growth, and that there is an acronym for it no less. Will research asap. As WONDERFUL as the drama-free trauma-free phases in life are (I CHERISH them), it’s true that our quantum growth comes from adversity, struggle, and (provided we have the resilience to move through it) trauma. Thank you for your wise comment.

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  3. Reading this flashed me back to that summer when all hung in the balance and none of us knew which way the balance would tip. I got teary all over again! Seeing Tea now looking so lovely and lively is, quite literally, Divine.
    Cognitive Brain Rest….just the name draws me in.
    Thank you my darling Hilary

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  4. I thank you for this part of the story. For many reasons. I shared much of what happened for you, at that time, but was operating from a place of uncertainty, and many miles between us. All I could do was send prayers, into the place, I thought was Tea, and your family’s locus of pain. As I read this now, I am able to much more understand the space that you were in, and the gift of slowing down, that She and Life was offering up to you. It has given me some comfort , as I navigate the unknown space right now, of my mother’s state, at the end of life, Unlike Tea, my mother’s brain is suffering from atrophy, unable to process, or communicate with words. We have often sat on the lanai, reflecting on the clouds, or trees, (which she thinks are people), which is more restful. I listen intently to her jibberish, thinking I might get a sense of what she is trying to communicate, which is not restful. Perhaps a little more brain rest is what is called for, and I will remember the gift in all this.

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  5. Beautifully written. I’m sure there were many heart breaks and lessons. We are so grateful that Annie has Tea as her
    roommate. I think they are kindred spirits and we adore her sweet spirit.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I have employees who need to do this and I know others who need this – brain rest should not be limited to the visibly injured, it is also for the invisibly maimed – by electrons, by incessant movement, and by other modern traumas…

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