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Brain Go BOOM!
Author/Survivor: John Cooper
With my final signature complete, I was good to go. I stood up to leave and proceeded to
walk out on my own two feet, as I had planned to do since the first night I got there.
Wait for it…BOOM! A hospital protocol foiled my plan. “You must be escorted out of
the hospital in a wheelchair upon discharge,” was a voice I heard from behind. This may not
sound like a big deal to most, but it was an emotional blow that took the wind out of my sails.
Begrudgingly, I sat down in the wheelchair and was escorted to the front door of the hospital. As
soon as the double door slid open from the center, I stood up and quickly and unsteadily walked
the twenty-five feet to the car and jumped in. The escort tried to get me back into the wheelchair
before I got to the car, but I won! I was like a Corky Carl Lewis headed towards my car. As you
can imagine, Laura wasn’t happy with this anarchistic uprising. However, in my eyes, I did get
to walk out of the hospital on my own two feet. That sweet, small victory was mine.
As we pulled away from the hospital and headed home, I was flooded with good and bad
emotions. I couldn’t wait to spend time with my girls and be in my own home, but numerous
what ifs were going through my head and my anxiety was going through the roof. Just writing
about it stresses me out. I held Laura’s right hand as she drove us home. She calmed my nerves
and assured me that, “We are going to get through it.” Notice, she didn’t say, “You are going to
get through it.” She said we. I could see how happy she was which, in turn, made me happy. It
was an emotional, seesaw of a ride home.
We approached a red light; it was a standard, red traffic light. What does one do at a red
light? You stop, look at your mirrors and look out your windows at the cars to the right and left
of you. You check out your surroundings and wait for the green light. At least, that’s what I do.
I was looking forward and I could feel the heat of the driver’s stare in the car to my right. It was
like a laser cutting through ten inches of titanium. He disgustedly looked at me as if I had
leprosy. I quickly turned my head and nervously looked forward with my oversized white strapon
helmet.
Reality quickly set in. I’d been in the rehab hospital with traumatic and acquired brain
injury patients. Most of us had worn those big white protective helmets—that was the norm.
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