My long neglected website. Given the lack of attention it receives, a person might be forgiven for thinking I was dead. In the immortal words of Monty Python, I’m not dead yet. But I’ve had to make hard choices about where I spend my writing time. You see, as I started working harder on the concussion book, the concussion symptoms returned. The irony is not lost on me.

My neuropsychologist suggested I did too much. Clearly she’s right. But for the record, I waited three years to take on a project in which others depended on me and deadlines mattered. I did what I was told. I rationed my screen time and my reading time. I added to it slowly. I was careful. I now know that I will never again be able to work long hours. I will never enjoy the satisfaction of working obsessively. I loved working obsessively.

The book is so worth it. No regrets. What I’ve learned from the women contributing to “Impact: The Lives of Women After Concussion” in the last few months has been so consoling. Their insight into our condition (concussion, post concussion syndrome and various levels of traumatic brain injury) exceeds anything I’ve learned from doctors or other health professionals in the last three years. I’m so grateful to them.

I have also had to confront my internalized ableism. Why is it that I have been so very reluctant to classify myself as disabled? Am I entitled to such a classification? Does what happened to me count?

Usually, I pass as a person with a normally functioning brain. (I’m trying not to insert an ableist joke here.) Mostly, I’m glad about passing. It’s easier. For one thing. I don’t want to talk about my issues all the time, although I’m sure some people think I do. Then, I start stuttering again, or wince at a loud noise that no one else notices, or have to flee from a store or busy restaurant, and I feel I need to explain myself.

Why do I think I need to explain myself? I see the difference in myself more than anyone else does. I’m the one who notices. When I had cancer, I could also pass. That is, I could pass until my hair fell out. Once my hair fell out, there was no hiding the fact I was seriously ill. I could wear a wig or a hat, but that was a disguise. With post concussion syndrome, even when I’m doing well, I’m always waiting for the wig to slip. Because my symptoms appear unexpectedly, I am suddenly exposed. I can’t pass anymore. It’s disconcerting. And it happens at the very worst times–times when I’m already stressed and busy. Of course.

So I tried an experiment. I talked about the surge in symptoms. A lot. I was very frank with people. I tried to be as frank as the women whose work I am reading. I tried to get comfortable with it. I can’t say it has worked. Not yet.

***

Impact: The Lives of Women After Concussion is coming mid 2021.*

Addendum: The title of the work changed to Impact: Women Writing After Concussion