pink hair

I now have PINK hair.  It was my husband’s idea, and I immediately loved it!  It’s been pink for about five weeks now, and it has been a very sweet five weeks of of no one asking if I’m his mother.  Of course, they might still, but somehow I don’t think so, do you?  I just got it redone about a week ago, and this time it’s a pretty startling sort of fuchsia (she left the color on too long, but that’s all right with me.)  The first time, it was a lovely smoky rose color.


I get frequent “I love your hair!” from store clerks, young people, friends who haven’t yet seen me, etc.  I don’t know if all of those comments from my friends are absolutely sincere or not, but I know they all see how much happier I am now.


Before I got it dyed, I did a lot of reading up on the new trend of women dying their hair pink.  And I am more than OK with the empowerment of the message it is sending.  I say that I am a feminist, but just not an angry feminist.  After all, I expect to be listened to:  I expect to vote:  I expect to be able to work, to drive, to be able to choose NOT to work, be taken seriously.  And I know enough history to be aware that all those things are courtesy of the very strong lovely women who came before me.  So I think, how on earth could I not be a feminist?  I just think women who say they aren’t feminists are now rejecting some of the baggage that goes along with the term these days, but THAT’s definitely a rant for another time and place.


But I have never ever ever seen men as my enemy.  I happen to love guys.  I love my sons, my daughters, other people’s children.  But I will always have a real soft spot for women, I admit.  Women’s choirs were always my secret passion.  I got a huge thrill out of seeing them develop into strong, confident young women.


And my pink hair is definitely a statement to myself, and to everyone who sees me, that I am back in the business of building people up somehow.  How, exactly, is not quite clear yet.  But I am becoming a little more confident that it will.




I don’t know where to begin here.  So…feet up?  I prefer ending with the face.

Every time I take off my shoes, my attention is drawn to the fact that my right ankle and foot are slightly larger and more purple than the left.  This is the side that the truck hit, and my injuries were most severe here.   There’s still a lot of pain and tenderness in my right foot, ankle, shin, and knee.   For a long time after I came home, this area was always extra cold. But, unfortunately, it also misinterpreted “heat” as “cold”, leading to some very near mishaps with bad burn situations.  Close vigilance in the way of actually reaching down and touching my supposed “freezing” foot, only to find out it was burning hot, prevented some pretty bad situations.This is a little better now, but still continues to be a problem.  I’m sure the reason I don’t notice it so much anymore is a combination of  gradual improvement, I’ve gotten used to it, and I’ve found adaptations.  Seems you can basically pretty much get used to anything, unless it’s constant disabling pain.  Thank goodness I don’t have that anymore!

More about my temperature:  a common result of brain injury is the body’s inability to control its own internal temperature.  During the fall/winter/spring, or simply anytime I’m indoors, away from the sun and in air conditioning, I’m cold.  Freezing cold.  Sometimes it gets so bad that my body starts shaking uncontrollably and can’t stop.  This is embarrassing for me, and bewildering for strangers.  Fortunately it only happens infrequently, but still…

To counteract this I wear gloves simply all of the time, even indoors.  Except in the heat of summer, I carry a blanket around to throw over my legs while I’m sitting.  I always wear two pair of pants, and often three shirts. Big change for a girl who always called herself hotblooded and used to wear sandals in the depth of winter.

Next comes the scar from the feeding tube.  This is what left me with my “second belly button.”  The feeding tube completely saved my life the seven weeks I was in a coma.  I had the feeding tube in until long after I learned to swallow again.  The doctors had to determine me to be getting enough nutrition from food to not need it anymore.  Getting it out was not fun.  Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?

My entire midsection is a network of  scars.  I use lots of lotion to keep them soft, but even so  some of them are raised and hard.  Whenever I am tempted to call them ugly, my husband sweetly corrects me and tells me they are the most beautiful things in the world to him. Because of those scars, I am alive.  I  go along with him,  but  I secretly still think they are ugly.

Sometimes they itch madly. Occasionally, for no reason,  my neck flushes bright red–a side effect of one of my medication.  When this happens, the tracheostomy scar in the front of my neck seems to positively glow white in contrast to the crimson of my neck.  I can feel the heat rising up from my neck, and it quickly transfers to my embarrassed cheeks.  Is there a word for  infinite embarrassment?  That would possibly be me at these times.  But such a trivial thing!

Sometimes I manage (after getting dressed in the morning) to forget about most of my scars for hours.  Then I change my clothes, or take a bath,and am startled to see they are still there.  My short term memory loss continually gives me the gift of forgetting–and rediscovering–over and over again.

For a few weeks, when I first came home, I flirted with the idea of trying to hide  my tracheostomy scar with a scarf.  After all, it’s not very pretty.  Aren’t women supposed to be all about trying to look attractive, hide our  flaws?  Aren’t we taught to dress to minimize our imperfections, not flaunt them?

And then I started thinking about that scar, what it said about me, my life, my experience, what I had been through.  Of all my scars from the wreck, it was by far the most visible.  By trying to hide it with a scarf, wasn’t I saying “No, no, it wasn’t ME that was in that accident!  You must have heard wrong!  That was someone else entirely!”  Wasn’t that sort of pretending that the most significant experience of my entire life was somehow shameful, incidental, something to be quickly forgotten and covered up and brushed aside?

I decided otherwise.  It was hard for me.  I’m pretty vain.   I don’t ever try to purposefully flaunt that scar because I still find it very unattractive, but it is a key part of me and what I’ve come through.  Just like my silver hair, and my lined face.  I came by this silver hair and these lines honestly, and I wouldn’t trade a single day.  So what was I saying about the scar by trying to hide that? After all, I survived what my scars represent.  By not hiding them, especially the visible ones, I hope I’m sending the message to people who see them that they can survive too. Because, unfortunately, bad things are coming to us all.  We have to stick together, scars and all.



reflection of what used to be

This is hard to write.  I didn’t even realize it was a problem.

It has been nearly 2 1/2 years since the accident, and I thought my attitude was mostly pretty positive.  Actually pretty miraculous, considering everything, would be the consensus of most people who know me.

My husband gave me a lovely, lovely Valentine card.  It was so beautiful it made my eyes tear up as I read it…he left it on the table for me when I came down for breakfast, because it was a work day for him.  I was alone when I opened it.  It said something about still being a beautiful woman.  I mean physically beautiful.  That shocked me to my core.  I used to be pretty, or at least I thought so.  I always had plenty of dates in high school and college, so that didn’t seem to be a problem, but every since the accident I look so much older, and initially I was so thin, and haggard and stooped, that I hated to see pictures of myself.  And several people, several times, would ask me if my husband was my son, or if my friends–who were always in my age group–were my daughters.  I was very well aware of how much the accident had aged me, and just didn’t enjoy looking at myself in mirrors anymore.

So I didn’t.  Without realizing it, for a couple of years I had only looked at bits and pieces of myself in mirrors to check for gunk in my eyes, if my hair needed combing, or if my outfit looked all right.  I had ceased to care much about my appearance. I was telling myself “It doesn’t matter!  It only matters what’s inside you!”  I had no concept of myself as even attractive anymore.

Then the card.  I sat staring at it, thinking, for a long time.  Then I slowly carried it into the downstairs bathroom, where I go to comb my hair, and set the card down on the counter beside the sink.  I lifted my eyes up to look at my face in the mirror.  Couldn’t do it.  No matter how hard I tried–and I tried over and over for 20  minutes–I couldn’t look at my entire face.  Could not make myself.  I could only force myself to glance at bits of my face for a second before my gaze would slip away, no matter how I tried.  I started to sob ,hard.  I hadn’t realized this was even a problem, let alone such a desperate one.

It was totally shocking.  Just another piece of crap I would have to fight through.  I get so tired of fighting all the time.  Of being positive.  Of smiling.  But I can’t give up, because I just don’t know how.  One time, years ago, within a few months I had been let go from one job that I really loved for reasons that I’m still confused about, and then I got a temporary teaching job.  When I interviewed for the permanent teaching job, I didn’t get it.  Under, shall we say, pretty dirty circumstances,  Those two experiences made me decide to be a more tough-skinned, less vulnerable, not smiling at everyone I meet, sort of person for the rest of my life!  I managed to keep that resolution for….I’d say, about 1/2 hour?  It’s not like I’m naturally good, I just don’t know how to be negative.  I always choose the positive.

My hair is silver.  It’s been naturally silver for several years now.  Before the accident, my face was pretty tan and my movements were quick and youthful, so people hardly ever mistook my age, but now…I look worried all the time, I’m stopped over, I have to be helped everywhere, I’m a little thinner than I used to be, I have several scars that I didn’t used to have, and my eyes must look older. I move much more slowly, awkwardly, cautiously.  No wonder they mistake me for the elderly mother.

I don’t feel I look beautiful anymore.  I don’t feel even remotely pretty anymore.  So how can I enjoy looking at myself in a mirror?  How do I fix this? It’s no use that my friends and husband rush in and say “you look younger!” when, almost immediately, a clerk, or another stranger, will mistake me for the elderly mother.  So I know better.  I know they’re just lying to save my feelings, because they love me.  Or maybe my husband still sees me through the eyes of love.  I don’t know.  I just know my eternal fountain of creativity is baffled this time.  I always thought that my husband and I would grow old together.  Not that I would suddenly leapfrog ahead of him.  That people would mistake me for my own children’s grandmother.  I KNOW it’s just my stupid pride, that I could have a terrible facial disfigurement or something like that.  But it’s still a problem.  Just because it could be worse doesn’t change the fact that it’s still a problem, and you still have to deal with it.  It just helps you keep it in the proper perspective, I guess.