Life After Brain Injury: From Teacher to Brother

It weighed heavily on me all yesterday afternoon. I was outside planting my first veggies of the year. Small rows of beets, Swiss chard, and a few snow peas – all happily planted, but my mind was elsewhere. I knew that in a few short hours, I would be seeing a cherished old friend, one that I'd not seen in over a decade.

But it came with a hitch – he now lives with dementia.

As the meeting time got closer, so did my anxiety rise. “Hey Google, do people with dementia know that they have dementia?”

Her robotic voice brought me no comfort when her reply came that most people who have dementia do not know that they are compromised.

In what amounts to a non-science-fiction time warp, I found myself in the basement of a familiar church last night. It was the same church hall that I frequented when I got sober, over half a lifetime ago. I was overcome with emotion before I ever took my first step inside the familiar hall.

Lots of life happened between the day I first entered that church back in 1991. It all came rushing back to me… the dark stairway, the low light of the basement meeting room, the not-so-soft chatter of those in attendance. It was both hauntingly familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. A couple of familiar faces in the crowd did little to ease my unease.

And then I saw him, standing by the coffee pot, chatting with someone.

Waiting my turn, I asked him if he had a couple of minutes. There was no familiarity in his eyes. I knew at that moment that he had no idea who I was, that our many years of friendship so long ago, might be forever lost to the ravages of dementia.

I drew a deep breath and said a quiet prayer.

“Hi _______, I'm not sure if you remember me. We were friends a long time ago.” My voice was calm and compassionate, something I learned was helpful when my Mom was living her final year with dementia.

I knew that he was slipping away and over the last couple of months, not a week went by that I didn't think about him. My intent was a simple one: I wanted to thank him for all he did to help me in early sobriety. For several years, he gave of his time and his knowledge to help me. No hidden agenda, he just wanted nothing more than to help me.

I can say with certainty that I would not be here today had it not been for his direction and the kindness of his guidance. This was a long-overdue time to simply say, "Thank you."

He sized me up for a moment, and I continued.

“With your help, and all the wisdom you shared, I've been able to stay sober. I want to thank you for how much you helped me during a time that I needed help,” and I introduced myself to him. I was younger the last time we saw each other, and a hundred pounds heavier. He smiled. “I knew a David Grant once,” he said softly, and simply walked away without another word.

Over the next hour, in the presence of all fifty or so who were in the church basement last night, I shared how much he had helped me, calling him out by name.

At the sound of his name, he turned from across the room, looked at me, and smiled broadly. It was at that moment, that something deep within recognized me. I saw his eyes change from dark pools to full of light. Tears poked around the edges of my own eyes, tears of gratitude. For at least a couple of minutes, he was back, present, and among us.

As the meeting ended, he came up to me with a smile on his face and very familiar mannerisms. He tucked a napkin in my hand. “Go on, open it,” he said. Scrawled in barely legible text was his name and phone number, a number I've had in my phone for many years. “Call me sometime, we'll have lunch.” By this time, I knew that he had again forgotten who I was.

I've been awash in emotion ever since.

What would our younger selves have had to say about that? Thirty-one years ago, we became friends, and there we found ourselves last night, he battling a progressive brain disease, and me, with a traumatic brain injury. In 1991, he was the teacher, I was the student. Last night we stood face-to-face, brothers in our neuro challenges.

While every brain condition is different, there is a certain commonality to those of us who live with challenges, much a deeper understanding of each others struggles.

I am deeply and profoundly grateful that I was able to look him in the eye and say thank you. These days I try to live by doing the next right thing, and by doing so, I have little regret and lots of gratitude.

It saddens me that his twilight years have to be spent like this, but we all have an end-game. He is clearly loved, safe, and as I saw last night, surrounded by people who love and accept him for who he is.

You really can't ask for any more than that.

~D