March marked the three-year anniversary of my concussion and a journey that taught me that unless you’re an athlete or have money to go to the US for treatment, you’re on your own.
One year into the pandemic I had cabin fever. There was a fresh blanket of snow and I had seen ski tracks in my local park at Corktown Common. I thought ‘what a great and (COVID) safe idea’. I waxed my cross-country skis and headed over on foot, skis over my shoulder.
Feeling proud of myself after a circuit around the park, a fall left me stunned. How did I end up flat on my back with my toque a foot away in the snow, skis up in the air, parallel to my body? Dazed, I called it a day, gathered my skis and poles to head home, except I was so confused – what was my route to get home? I knew something was wrong, I lived three blocks away, but I put it down to the shock of the fall. Two weeks later, still sore from head to toe but with a strange feeling in my head I walked myself to emerg and said, “I think I have a concussion.” The triage nurse had another idea. It turns out my blood pressure was through the roof, and I was rushed by wheelchair into what is called a major room.
After an array of cardiac monitoring and tests including a CT scan all was pronounced good, well sort of. I did have a concussion. Before I was discharged I asked for the concussion pamphlet that a friend told me the hospital should give me. This request surprised the nurse who had to track it down. I also asked, unsuccessfully, for a referral to a concussion clinic for follow-up.
At home, relieved but scared, I tried to grapple with an array of symptoms I wasn’t used to: light sensitivity, dizziness, a strange papaya shaped area of sensitivity in my head, insomnia, fatigue, memory, and concentration issues.
The concussion, layered on the COVID pandemic, turned my work world upside down. I’m widely known as a street nurse, working on homeless health issues, obviously exacerbated during the pandemic. I could no longer do street outreach, visit an encampment, speak to the media, or do my usual speaking engagements including teaching –activities that were part of my daily routine. I was told to stay off screens which inhibited my ability to follow the rapidly evolving pandemic news, and I couldn’t advocate as effectively on issues I was working on – more portable toilets in encampments, physical distancing for people in shelters, testing and vaccine priority for unhoused people. It was both frustrating and disempowering.
As months passed, I realized I was a statistic facing systemic barriers I had often witnessed my patients experience. It took six months and enormous self-advocacy and a referral by my family doctor, who reassuringly said “I’m here for you”, to finally be ‘seen’ on a zoom call by a neurologist.
Women are more prone to concussions but also to receive inadequate medical treatment. Theories suggest several reasons: women’s weaker neck muscles, incidence of violence against women, women’s reluctance to seek medical attention and medical system bias against non-sports related head injury. I know two women who had to go to the US for comprehensive concussion care.
I accidently discovered the book Impact, an anthology described as “21 women writers consider the effects of concussion on their personal and professional lives. The anthology bears witness to the painstaking work that goes into redefining identity and regaining creative practice after a traumatic event.”
Reading Impact validated the systemic barriers and prejudices I had experienced as a woman with a head injury. Speaking to one of the authors who is a friend was helpful. An activist like me, she shared that she could now only do one activity a day. Okay, that gave me permission to accept that.
I sought out other ways to heal my brain.
Nature is of course one of the most important healers available to us. An outdoor guided course from my local school board’s Learn for Life adult program introduced me to local parks, birding, and nature. I also took advantage of their virtual yoga and relaxation for sleep courses. These, along with free virtual classes from the YMCA ranging from yoga to Tai Chi to Pilates classes became the rhythm that retrained my balance system.
I was never a game show watcher, but Jeopardy became my brain trainer, helping me to retrieve words and information stuck in my brain.
Thank goodness for libraries. Toronto Public Libraries’ Libby app allowed me to download books and read sparingly (although it always felt like screen cheating) on my iPad.
I bought a smart watch, that gave me the motivation to track my steps, get outdoors but also monitor my sleep score.
Concussions are an invisible injury with an enormous impact on health and productivity. They shouldn’t be an invisible issue to the health care system.
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