A few weeks ago, I found myself sitting in a beginners Buddhist meditation class. I’m not really a meditator, so while I am trying to focus on my breath and keep my energetic presence and focus, I am plagued with thoughts of chocolate pretzels, the conversation that I am going to have with my client about my impending absence and yet another likely explosive interaction with my husband about money.   At the instruction of the teacher, I keep labeling these thoughts “thinking” and will them to dissipate into the air on each out-breath – but it’s clear I have a long way to go until I even start my journey onto the path of enlightenment. An additional complication is that Buddhist meditation, unlike other more populist forms of the practice, is done with eyes open. We are positioned in a gorgeous studio that overlooks the Hudson river- with an uninterrupted view of rippling water and the Palisades. My eyes don’t much like this, as I can’t really focus them on things that far away.  In fact, the view makes me feel nauseous and unsettled, which just serves to remind me that instead of feeling inner peace, I am feeling downright sorry for myself. I have forgotten that I am supposed to be feeling grateful that I am not dead, that I can sit long enough to even attend this session and that my pain level is only a 3. Instead, I am ruminating on the unfairness of the post concussive symptoms that have caused my vision and balance to be all over the place, that are currently interrupting not just my week ahead when yet again, I have to tell my employer that I can’t do what I thought I would be able to, but my whole plan- the one where I had mapped out how the next few years were going to look.

Last summer, the summer of the accident, I was 43. I call it my early mid forties, or my late early forties. Whatever. I’m firmly in my forties.  It was a fantastic summer.  I was transitioning from one job to another, so was enjoying something the British call “gardening leave” which is just some compulsory vacation. Somehow, forces outside of my control had contrived that this burden of free time should happen over the summer. I am the mom of 3 boys who are in the golden age of childhood (ages 7,9 and 11) that magical time between babyhood and teens when they are pretty good company but still want parenting and hugs. We spent an idyllic summer hopping from vacation to vacation, a week at a beach house, a once in a lifetime RV trip up the west coast, camping in the woods and just hanging about. I was free to spend hours ramping up my physical fitness to get back to tip top shape for triathlon after a year of absence driven by crazy work schedules. In all it was 12 weeks of the almost perfect summer-which is a good thing, because I was about to need all the mental and physical strength I could muster to stay alive.

My age is important because as part of that summer of fun, I decided that I was going to deal with part of my mid life crisis by purchasing a VESPA. I had been sort of thinking about getting one for years.  A whole series of nested motivations sat behind this decision.

1)   The logical– practical reason: I was starting a new job and knew that, as usual, the hours would be crazy. I was sick of having to beg a ride back and forth to the station in the mornings or at the end of the day, as such a motor scooter was a convenient and practical solution for everyone.

2)   A romantic and fashionable illusion: I imagined myself like those glamorous Southern European twenty somethings, zipping around on my VESPA, in sunglasses and high heels.  It was kind of like a hyperbolic expensive handbag- but more daring.

3)   Adding some excitement to middle age: I suffer from a dangerous combination of terminal uniqueness, the need to push against rules and a joy of living close to the edge.  Riding around in my VESPA in my little suburban town, I felt like I could bite my thumb at convention and get my endorphin fix at the same time.

By the time I started my new job on September 6th, I was zipping back and forth to the station, high on the thrill, feeling like a 60s movie star and smug that I had sold this whole thing as a practical solution to our commuting“problem”.

The morning of September 15th had a pretty ordinary start- an early bike workout, followed by corralling boys towards buses and school. By the time I had left the house, unlocked and hauled the VESPA over the grass to the road, smushed my computer bag in the box in the back and put on my helmet, I was, of course, running a minute or two late. But it was a gorgeous sunny day and I drove at my customary top speed of 17mph for the 1mile trip down to the station. My friend Tom who was about to leave town to move to San-Francisco was standing on the street ½ way there. We waved. It felt like a movie moment.

Parking was still something that I was struggling with. The bike park was on the station platform and to park my scooter, I needed to get it over a full curb, round a corner and then back it into a little nook under the station bridge. For those of you that have never ridden one, VESPAs are kind of heavy and clunky so I had taken to giving it a bit of “engine rev” to get it over the curb. That little rev set in place a sequence of events that are some of the most unlucky and some of the luckiest moments of my life.

That morning, after the curb rev, instead of pulling back my wrist to activate the break, I pushed my wrist forward.  Forward is acceleration. I was about 10 feet from platform edge and hurtling at a frightening speed towards it. Realizing my mistake, I knew I needed to brake, but my wrist still pushed further forwards. More acceleration.  The bike continue to lurch forwards,even faster, out of control. Before I knew it, I was on the yellow bumps that mark the edge of the platform and then midair. Sometimes I joke that the whole thing was a failed Evel Knievel move to jump from one station platform to the other, leaping over 4 train tracks on the way.  It's a poor joke. The mid air moment of panic was quickly followed by a sickening thud as I landed 6ft lower than I started, on the tracks.  I remember being aware that I was looking north up the tracks and seeing the light of something. Maybe it was a train, maybe it was just a reflection, maybe it was that light that people talk of in a near death situation.  Whatever it was, it’s a moment that I know will become part of me forever. I also knew that things weren’t looking good and that I couldn’t move. Strangely enough, I don’t remember being afraid.

I’m not sure what happened next. I was vaguely aware of my surroundings and that I had been removed from the tracks onto the platform by two fellow commuters. I would find out much later that it was a local doctor (actually a parent of someone my kids had been in preschool with) and a local moving company employee, Wayne. They used their unique combination of medical knowledge and strength to carefully lift me over the 3rd rail, which I had miraculously avoided, and into safety.  I remember hubbub around me, 911 calls, calls to Metro North to stop the trains and blood. I knew I was bleeding, although I wasn’t sure from where.

In my tunnel vision, I was simultaneously worrying about the impact that this was going to have on my day, while clearly understanding that this was something that was going to have a significant effect way beyond the next 24hours. I really had 3 thoughts—my work computer, my husband and a bunch of shame, immediately blaming myself for what had happened. For some reason I was extremely concerned that my stuff  (the bag that had been smushed into the VESPA box- and that was now strewn where I fell) might get left on the train tracks, and, like any self respecting business executive, wanted to make sure that all the “incredibly important” conversations and PowerPoint presentations from the last week would be preserved.  (In case you are wondering everything was safely returned to me.) Trying to get hold of my husband was a much more appropriate response. I remember repeating his phone number over and over so that he could be contacted. He had a late start that morning as he had been swimming and so was able to be on the scene pretty quickly. Then there was the shame. I had known that getting a scooter was a frivolous decision, but how idiotic to drive it onto the train tracks. How could I have let my own sense of adventure and vanity jeopardize everything?  I started to apologize- something that continued for several days. I was also aware that I had broken my tooth. That was it.

The trauma of the next minutes, hours and days is both fuzzy and yet indelibly imprinted on my memory: Kevin’s arrival, the 8-minute ambulance trip, the realization that I did have pain- lots of it, in lots of places. On arrival at the hospital the ER staff swarmed around me as they tried to figure out what was going on and there were multiple tortuous transfers of my broken body from ground to gurney, to hospital bed, to MRIs and X-ray and CT. That was the day that I really understood the pain scale. Over and over again in a medical setting, health care staff ask what your pain level is. 10 is the worst pain possible, 0 is no pain at all. Over time, I was to learn that actually pain is not really a 2 dimensional thing at all, but that it comes in all sorts of variations; sometimes it’s crunchy, sometimes it’s spikey, sometimes it’s strong-often it has color and shape and even motion. However on that day, as ER staff carefully handled those transfers, I learned what a “10” was-pain that is so bad that it’s unbearable.

Over the course of the day in the ER I was diagnosed with a burst vertebrate in my back, a broken neck in 2 places, a broken nose, a tibial plateau fracture (a particularly nasty leg break) and of course was still bleeding from lacerations on my head. No-one seemed worried about my broken tooth.  The MRIs showed how closely my broken back had come to blood vessels and nerves in my back, and to this day, I credit the fact that I was in such good physical shape for keeping me from being paralyzed or worse. I quizzed bemused doctors about when I would next be able to do triathlon.  The day past in a blur of MRI tubes, faces looking down at me, and moments of lucidity. I remember screaming in pain as I got my leg fixed in a cast before back surgery yet writing emails to work to explain what had happened. As that first day drew to a close I remember being terrified as I was left alone for maybe a few minutes in the ICU. Thankfully, once in the ICU there were better drugs- so then there is a long soothing blank.

In retrospect, the next week has the feeling of being in a giant battle.  Following back surgery, dental surgeons fixed my nose, and I was transferred to a step-down trauma ward. I struggled to manage pain, had a full day of dizziness and nausea (and weeping) and suffered from shock driven paranoid hallucinations. I became incredibly sensitive to any noise or vibration, everything from the sound of lawn mowers to the sound of the TV were unbearable. In addition I was convinced that the hospital night staff were plotting against me and that it wasn’t safe for me to be alone. One night I refused to allow my husband to go home to the children- as I needed him to stand watch. At about 3 am, during what I was saw as particularly egregious assault, I convinced him to take photographs of the messages that staff had left for me in UV writing on the wall.  We have kept those blank pictures of the wall.  It’s somehow comforting to be able to have some physical evidence that counteracts the vivid memories of night-time terror that still sit with me.

It took a full week before they were able to schedule knee surgery, firstly waiting for swelling to subside, then being bumped by a 4am trauma case and finally because of a deep vein blood clot (DVT) that developed as a result.  So in the meantime I started to get used to the rhythm of the hospital: early morning wake up calls, staff shift changes, evening bed washes and small wins with physical therapy. This relative calm was contrasted with my continued battle against the environment: The blood clot meant more tubes, more drugs and more blood needed to be drawn from my now black and blue arms. The assault continued in the form of incessant beeping of machines (it seemed that the exact tone of the beeps were designed to cause maximum aural discomfort) and noise from my series of roommates- one of which would stay up all night muttering swearwords, watching crime TV shows and arguing loudly with staff.

By the end of the week, I was starting to feel a bit better, I had even been able to get out of bed a few times- so I was thinking that the second surgery would be pretty easy.  Unfortunately that was not to be. The reconstruction of my lower left leg with 2 plates and 12 pins took 5 hours and is now what my knee surgeon describes as “ a thing of beauty”. (This, in typical orthopedic surgeon humility is a reference to his work and has nothing to do with me.)  The surgery was followed by an incredibly traumatic 5 hours in recovery as nurses battled to control the pain and to keep me calm with promises of cake for dinner. (This was my second “10” moment of pain.)  By the time it came to dinner, I didn’t want cake, or in fact dinner at all. The nights that followed were some of the most difficult to manage pain wise. I was on an IV that allowed me to deliver my own medication, which is great during the day, but at night or anytime I fell asleep it was a killer, as skipping just a couple of doses would put me in agony and set off a pain spiral that was hard to recover from.  This was complicated by the fact that I was suffering from hypnic jerks (those strange jerky movements that happen just as you fall asleep- annoying at the best of times). These jerks sent searing pain through my broken joints and made me yell out in my sleep. Eventually, I set an alarm every 30mins through the night to wake up and deliver myself medication. To this day, every time I set a wake-up call on my phone, I see those historical alarms set at 2:15am, 2:45am, 3:15 am etc. all the way through the night and I am reminded of those long disturbed nights.

While I was falling apart, it was clear that there were a lot of people there to catch me.  Kevin, of course showed herculean strength.  He was by my side within 15 minutes of the accident and then rarely left. For the first few days he showed up at 6am for surgeries or doctors’ rounds and stayed until I was ready to face the night-time jungle  (which is what I started to call it.) At home our parents on both sides rallied. First my mother in law came to the rescue, then my mum flew in from England. Later my father-in law would be a frequent presence. My friend Kim would come by with smoothies, read excerpts from People magazine out-loud, and would later become holder and super organizer of the community spreadsheet (more on that later).  Sunny, another friend, who happens to be a nurse manager in the hospital, was able to visit us in the ER and dropped by most days in her lunch break. She would keep us updated on the inside track, and also put to rest some of my more outrageous hallucinatory theories. Freja, our super AuPair from Sweden, who had been with our family in 2014, hopped on a flight so that she could help to keep us all sane, bring some continuity to the children and be my constant companion over the next 90days.

The arrival of my mum helped us to move forward in a number of ways. Most of all she started to take the pressure off Kevin, sitting with me so that he could occasionally go to work, bringing fresh coffee and berries every morning and being a pillar of strength for us all. It was also an important milestone in managing my shame. Fearing that everyone would be angry about my scooter adventures, I had asked Kevin to tell my family that I had been injured in a car accident.  I became convinced that if my mum knew the truth- that she would be so disgusted that she wouldn’t come. Of course, she did come. When I told her of my horrible self contempt around the accident she told me how she had been thinking of getting a scooter herself- and had even gone so far as to pick one out.  I wonder if it is a coincidence, that the night-time terrors started to subside from this point onwards.

I missed the children desperately and worried about how they were coping, but it was very hard to find a way to connect with them.  Kevin had prepped them with pictures of me before they visited for the first time, but I know that seeing me in those first few days was very traumatic.  I learned later that my first grader, Sebsatian was leaning heavily on the support of teachers at school and had confided in his brother that he was worried that I would die. Finnegan, (9) always super confident, had reassured him, and was dealing with it by talking about my injuries nonchalantly with anyone who would listen. Zac, my eldest, (11) didn’t talk about it at all. They bravely visited every few days, but it was clear that the visits were difficult. In addition to the obvious mess that I was in, it’s hard for little people not to enthusiastically hug their broken mom, to resist the temptation to jump around on hospital furniture or push the interesting buttons on the bed. As a result their visits were short and because hugs were incredibly painful, I could have very little physical contact with them. Eventually we settled into a routine where they visited one by one, but the month without them was another layer of pain that felt hard to endure.

Along with the support of our immediate family, came an outpouring of love from our friends, neighbors, co-workers and wider community. It felt like those old Verizon ads, where the guy had a whole crowd of people following him around- it was like the whole world had our backs and they were catching us as we fell!   On top of the cards, flowers, and very short visits (I would still frequently fall asleep or become distracted by pain during a conversation), there were hundreds of texts, emails and social media messages, the children’s teachers were keeping a watchful eye out for them and within a few days a dinner rotation was started. Delicious food started appearing for the family every Tues, Thursday and Sunday. This treat started during my hospital stay and continued for several months. It felt indulgently long at the time- but we were grateful for every scrap of not having to cook/clean, and more than that it was a symbolic safety net. Every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday for the next 4 months we were reminded that we were not alone

At the end of the second week, I was transferred to rehab to begin the long journey to getting better. It was a wonderful 50+ acre property that I called the “getting better factory”. While I started to take part in 3 hours of PT and OT each day, the wonderful nurses made it their first order of business to help sort out my hair.  It had barely been touched since the accident- when it had been soaked in blood and now it was full-on dreadlocks. Not yet cleared to go in the shower, and of course needing to be in full neck and leg braces, the nurses jerry rigged a system of plastic bags and buckets at the top of the bed. After several hours of super-shampoos and conditioners that my mum had procured from a local hairdresser, and some gentle brushing- I finally emerged with something like my hair. We also repainted my toenails and now that I was unhooked from all the IV wires, I could wear my own clothes. It’s the only time I can think of, that I have felt glamorous in sweatpants, an oversized T-shirt and cozy socks. A few days later, I was allowed into the shower. As soon as the hot water hit my body, I cried. I was crying for myself and for my family, for everything we had been though and everything still yet to come. They were tears of fear and sorrow and gratitude.  It felt like a symbolic transition between the acute and traumatic phase of the accident and the hospital, where I was fighting to keep my head above water, to a new more gentle slope of recovery, where each day would see an improvement from the previous.

I loved the rehab experience in general. I was able to move around the building and grounds in my wheelchair, and I would frequently ask my visitors to take me outside- even if it was raining. Everyone became pretty adept at wheeling me up and down ramps and around corners. It was also much easier for the children to visit as we could explore different parts of the building and grounds, play games in the lounge and one day we even held a birthday party in the patient dining room complete with party hats, pizza and cake for my son who turned 9 during my stay. My appetite was starting to return and so I began to make my way through all the chocolatey treats that had been sent to me. I had lost more than15lbs while I was in the hospital, and I had learned that my body needed more than twice as many calories as usual to fix broken bones. I had been dessert free for about 6 months before the accident- but at this point using my limited energy in this kind of self-discipline seemed beyond the call of duty. Chocolate, cake and desserts in all their forms have remained great friends to me over this whole recovery journey. Desserts and coffee. A girl has to have some vices. My therapists pushed me hard, but were fun and day-by-day I moved from completely immobile to able to hop 50 ft on crutches, to get to the bathroom alone and to get up and down a few stairs. In addition, I was now much more lucid and was inspired by the work that they did there.  Group OT sessions were a great way to meet my fellow patients in the spinal injury unit, and we all enjoyed some moments of fun and gallows humor as we played bananagrams, lifted 1 lb weights or pummeled Playdoh. These were often victims of spinal cord injuries that were slowly, slowly working towards getting function back in paralyzed limbs . I witnessed patients with broken necks standing assisted for the first time, shooting victims getting back the use of their arms and stroke patients regaining confidence.

During this period in rehab, my physical pain was starting to recede and so here and there some of the psychological effects were starting to peep through. I remember one day taking my afternoon nap and dreaming of being a ballerina- dancing at the studio where I had studied as a teenager. I woke up crying as I quickly realized that I was still encased in a full neck and leg brace and that I could barely move- deep down terrified that I will never be able to rely on my body in the way that I always have. In addition, I had begun to notice that my eyes weren’t working as they used to. The world just seemed not quite right- slightly out of focus. I was struggling to watch TV or read for more than a few minutes at a time.  At the time this was attributed to shock and to the medication I was taking, but we would find out later that it was a sign of some of the troubles that would last even beyond some of more acute physical injuries. However, in general, I was in good spirits. I was born for hard work and have always enjoyed pushing my body to deliver it’s best. In my youth I was a competitive gymnast and performed extensively as a dancer- both pursuits that require disciplined training and a need to continuously push physically further.  As an adult, after 3 pregnancies and births, struggling with post partum depression and what seemed like years of breast feeding- I had worked hard to reclaim my strength and stamina in physical fitness and triathlon. After my youngest turned 1, I trained in around 6months to swim 1 mile in open water, bike 26miles and run 6miles, emerging from the childbearing fog with a new found joy in what I could ask my body to do.  Balancing parenting, training and work has never been easy ( I have often been known to combine at least 2 of these at once- kid on the back of a bike, conference calls while entertaining children or listening to business books while running) but I have always been able to draw on extra energy reserves and push through the wall, both at work and with my body. (Please note, I have 2 speeds- on and off- I am also a VERY good napper. After these streaks of endurance I frequently collapse in a heap of exhaustion, requiring everyone around me to pick up the pieces so I am pretty sure that this is an unhealthy and largely unhelpful way to live!). All of this to say that in this situation, this ability to push forwards at all costs was helpful, the “getting better project” of physical rehab dovetailed neatly into my slightly warped self image and core skill set. I followed directions and got results, setting myself the goal of being the best patient ever.

After I had proved that I could get up stairs and into a car I convinced the hospital to let me go home early, just a few days shy of one month after the accident. I was desperate to get back to the children, to sleep in my own bed and get moving. Of course, on the morning of my release, when Kevin came to pick me up, the act of leaving was a little more terrifying than I had anticipated. It felt a little bit like when we were allowed to leave the hospital after we had had the babies. Were they really going to let me start to take care of myself- would we manage?  Of course, we did manage, and the first night home was blissful.

The next several months of my life was actually pretty simple. Driven by a “ lucky to be alive” attitude and supported by amazing family and friends that took over the running of our complex household, I was able to focus entirely on “ operation getting better”. At the heart of the operation was a rigid routine. I would get up early with the boys, crutch up to the bus stop to drop off my youngest and then take a “walk” around the block. After the “walk” was breakfast with berries, followed by PT. After PT an hour of trashy TV was followed by a nap. The boys would come in from school and sit with me while they did homework then a 3:30pm cup of tea and a cookie (my inner Brit was coming out) would then get me ready for my “afternoon walk”. Then was almost time for dinner with the children and to lie down. I was wiped out by 7pm and usually in bed by 9pm. This rigid and perhaps slightly obsessive scheduled approach kept me sane, fairly chipper and in contact with lots of people. My wonderful community had now organized to pick me up and take me to PT 3 times per week. This was the perfect way to socialize and feel connected, I was able to keep up with community gossip, but at a time of day that meant I still had the energy to talk and in small doses- as my stamina was still low.

Our block is exactly ½ a mile round, something that has been very useful when training for triathlons with small children (I was never more than 2 minutes from the house). I leveraged this exact measurement for my 8am and 3:30pm walks. I would simply go round in circles. Over the next months, and armed with a mantra that I frequently used in triathlon training “ fast as a fox-strong as an ox”, I increased my crutching distance from 50ft to½  a circle ( from the back to the front of the house) and eventually to 4 circles (2 miles). In addition to helping me move closer getting better, keeping moving kept my pain levels lower and I could feel my body getting stronger (My physical therapist always says “motion is lotion”—and I am now a big believer in this. If I skipped a day,I would immediately be in significantly more pain).  In addition, my “walks” also gave more opportunity to interact in with my community.  My schedule became well known and sometimes my neighbors would join me, or friends would drop by just to walk in circles. One elderly neighbor kept promising to send her 89 year old husband to walk with me, although ultimately she decided that she couldn’t trust him to walk alone with a woman 45 years his junior. I still wave to her every day as she heads out to 8:30am Mass.

Over time, I was gradually able to bend my crushed leg and had started to ride my stationary bike (as long as I wore my collar) and so, with grit between my teeth 2 days before Christmas ( 15 weeks after the accident) I took my first steps without crutches.  On top of the obvious thrill of this progress, I was overjoyed that I would be able to make a meal for my family over the holiday (up until that point my hands were needed for crutches.) It was also just in time to look after my kids as they came down with a horrible stomach bug- that very same night. I have vivid memories of strangely placed joy when I was able to clean up their vomit from the floor at 2am- finally able to do something for someone else.  Unfortunately I came down with the same bug just 24 hours later, and the whole family spent Christmas in quarantine ,eating nothing but dry toast. I did manage to make a Christmas meal a few days later, but sadly created an oil fire while doing so, which meant that we had to open all the doors and windows during which time we thought our cat escaped. After scouring the neighborhood, we found him some time later cowering under the dining room table!

Meanwhile, to the outside world (where you couldn’t see the chaos inside our house) my physical recovery was nothing short of miracle and with the acute phase over a whole new pattern of recovery would emerge. What I didn’t know, was that in some ways the hard work was just beginning.   During the previous few months, my mental health had been propped up by the fact that I was looking forward to returning to my new job.  While I was in the hospital the doctors had told me it would take around 12 weeks to recover. I, naïvely, took them at their word.   As soon as I was able to concentrate on reading, doing puzzles or watching TV (which would take me to mid November) I took on some projects from home and I pulled myself off opiate painkillers by the end of that month. I scheduled my return date for Dec 15th, exactly 3 months after the accident.

During the course my hospital stay, my company had put in place a new CEO, who was to be my boss. By December 1st, I had still not met her, although I had spoken to her on the phone a few times.   As the Dec 15th deadline loomed closer, it became clear that a commute into NYC and managing a full work-day was a ridiculous proposition, however on Dec 7th, supported by friends that accompanied me in and out of town, I tentatively made my first trip into the city. It was great to be among people and to see a glimmer of my former self.  My new boss threw a lunch celebration, and I was called upon talked about my experiences to the whole team. Looking back, I was surprisingly articulate, able to talk about some of the more harrowing parts of my accident and then emphasize the life and leadership lessons.  At the same time, we decided to push off my return date two more weeks until Jan 1st. Of course, there is no playbook for starting a new job (I had only 6 days under my belt prior to the accident) and recovering from a near fatal accident at the same time. Plus the physical injuries and pain that I had suffered, were masking some head injury symptoms that we were yet to really surface.

In the acute phase of my recovery, I was well aware that I had stared into the eye of death and escaped, but it was not until I tried to re-enter the world, that I really started to feel the psychological impact of this.  My first week back at work, I became obsessed with PTSD and trauma symptoms, starting to read multiple biographies from trauma victims and caregivers and by the end of that week- it was clear back that it was going to be a long struggle. The first of many weekend meltdowns ensued. The plan had been to ease back in to the workplace part time, however after a few weeks, my colleague was called out prematurely on paternity leave. Fighting my ambivalence at returning so soon, I saw this as a great opportunity to pay-back the world for all the gifts that they had given to me over the previous months and it gave me the psychological boost I needed to power the weeks ahead.

Going to the office, I got the chance to get dressed in real clothes, which was therapeutic in itself, and I dug deep into those infamous energy reserves to dive back into the new role-head on. It is well known that consulting is a pretty intense business requiring long hours and with the need to react to client needs, sometimes at short notice and so within a few days, I was back to a familiar routine of 5am starts and work everywhere all the time. I was trying to get to know new-to-me clients, teams and ways of working and leading multiple six-figure projects and new business proposals for at least 5 Fortune 500 companies. I was still wearing a neck and leg brace- and would often sit on a reclining chair at work.  However, occasionally, in client meetings and with team members, I would feel like my old self for a few minutes here and there. I have always had a certain level of addiction to success and this period was no exception.  The momentary endorphin buzz I have always felt when helping teams deliver great work, pleasing a client or closing a deal helped keep my head above water and coming back each day.  The teams could not have been more supportive and flexible as I tried to do my best to get up to speed and keep things moving forward for my colleague. However in truth, it was incredibly difficult. At the weekends, as I shut off the adrenaline, my pain levels would double and I would take to my bed -exhausted mentally and physically.

Over the next month or so, my physical pain started to subside and I shed my neck and leg brace. I could now walk the 1 mile to and from the office from Grand Central station without a stick (I have refused to travel on the subway to this day), swim ½ mile and use my stationary bike for 30mins.  However my mental clarity was not returning in the way that I had expected. Phone calls were becoming increasingly difficult (I was working a few days from home to attend PT and these days were some of my hardest), I would not be able to find words when I needed them and my ability to tell a story seemed less polished than I was used to. Spreadsheets, something that I have always loved, were like a foreign language- with numbers dancing on the page. Occasionally I would send unfinished work to a client and I lacked the energy to push work from 90% to the final finish line. Outside of work I couldn’t bear to be in a crowd or around noise, I would retreat to my room at home, and when attending my first major social event I had to sit in the lobby to keep from being overwhelmed.  I first complained of fuzzy eyesight in the hospital, but with all the other things happening, it was a low priority and explained away by opiates. I had visited an eye doctor in October, who could find nothing wrong- so I just assumed that it would go away over time. However, the fuzz was not lifting. I became concerned that perhaps there was something else going on that we needed to focus on, maybe I had PTSD or the effects of head injury.  Everything came to a head at the end of February. It became clear that I was not keeping up at work, despite giving it everything I had. Some clients were unhappy and we risked losing an important account. I parked my car one day and took ½ hour to find it and got lost driving to my doctor’s office, despite having been there multiple times and using a GPS.

I had been seeing a therapist throughout the months of recovery and together we decided that I should investigate and visit a concussion specialist. It had always been mysterious that with severe injuries to both the front and back of my head that there had not been any focus on head injuries. One visit to the Concussion Center at NYU gave a clear diagnosis. All of my symptoms, memory, vision, attention, nausea, general fuzziness, retreating from social occasions and sensitivity to noise could be explained by post concussive syndrome and it was also noted that my balance was about as good as the average drunk.  My doctors recommended that I take a few weeks out of work and referred me to neurology and vestibular and visual therapy. Obviously, I immediately got on a plane to California to visit a client.  I had just been cleared to travel, and they were paying for a first class ticket, so continuing to be in denial, it felt like the logical choice. I could take time off later.

Of course, this wasn’t the best course of action.  I did finally take a week of rest- collapsing in my bed in exhaustion. Between naps, it became clear that it was time for a radical attitude change. I needed to accept that I was not ready to bounce back, that I was not super human, that I was not ready for a big new job and that my brain was not going to respond to the same kind of “tough it out- and do the work” kind of approach that my body did.  So, on the same day that my orthopedic surgeon cleared me for “all activities”- I began another month long break from work.

 And so, a week into my “take it slow-plan”, I found myself in the Bhuddist meditation beginners class, my eyes and mind not able to focus and feeling nauseous, forgetting that I was supposed to be feeling grateful, thinking about chocolate my new best friend, worrying about work and how we will be able to pay for our mortgage and busy lifestyle if I can’t work.

We live in an age and location where we understand more about concussion than ever and have access to therapy that can help to resolve the issue.  So far, we have identified some very tangible symptoms that we are working on in my visual and vestibular systems and inner ears. This involves looking at movies that consist of entirely of thick vertical lines in motion, moving my head and eyes from side to side while looking at dots on the wall and trying to re-position inner ear crystals- all of which leave me feeling groggy. But more than anything they are prescribing rest.   And,while I am an incredibly talented “napper”, I find it very hard to sustain rest without feeling guilt ridden and useless.  So of course I made a plan. I spent the first few days of “concussion camp” trying activities that were non screen based. I paired 2 years worth of socks, joined my son in making 100 Lego figures, learn to draw manga (Japanese cartoons) and made a few ambitious family meals. I was hoping to step it up over the weeks to closet cleaning- the most satisfying of home-bound activities. Sadly there will be no closet cleaning anytime soon as unfortunately I have found that all of these non-screen based activities often mean small body movements and crunching over a table or the floor. None of this is good for a broken neck and back and so at the end of week one I was called upon to find the stillness of mind to really surrender to the situation.  And so here I am back at my screen- taking breaks, or giving up when the words start to dance.

Pyschologically this phase of recovery is much harder than any of the parts that have come before. Having started with the idea that I would be back on track within 12 weeks, it’s now clear that my doctors were using the term recovery very loosely. At the 12 week mark, they gave me a more realistic expectations that I will be at my current pain level for at least a year- and while I am cleared to run if I want to —it’s clear it will never be a pleasant experience (and for now at least- it would likely make me throw up!).  From a head injury perspective, it’s hard to get used to symptoms that are nuanced, that can’t be seen and that come and go. Sometimes I don’t even believe myself, and am convinced that I am making up the fuzziness in order to wallow in self pity. And to the outside world, I now look fine- good even.  Meanwhile, I can’t tolerate large groups or late nights and so can’t attend regular social events. My social life now takes the form of one to one walks, coffee or cake dates and sitting on the side of baseball fields ( although I can't yet follow a game, which can be maddening.)  It's super important to take it slowly and to take regular naps to recharge, but I have to be careful that the dark shadows of depression don't take over and keep me in bed all day.  My seven year old worries that too much time alone will be bad for my brain. ( He read a book about brains at school- so clearly he is trying to educate himself on the subject!)

The path forwards is clear, only in so far as the previous plan of diving back into a big leadership job won’t work. But with my self identity so wrapped in my work and my ability to apply my signature energy to the world around me, it’s hard to picture what a middle ground between hiding under the covers and working a 65 hour week will look like.  I don’t know if my ability to think and see straight will return next week, or months from now. Sometimes I can read a book or watch a movie for a few hours at a time, but other times I feel my head start to spin, or my eyes tiring within a few minutes of looking at words.  Some days I am in a lot of pain- especially before it rains and on other days I ride my indoor bike, go swimming or can prepare dinner for the family. I feel like the woman with boundless energy to keep up with family and work, a sharp wit and the drive and confidence to go toe to toe with anyone is a distant memory. It is in this context that I sometimes forget that I am lucky to be alive, that anything that I can do today is a bonus compared to what might have happened on that train track on Sept 15th. The skills I have spent my life honing, “work hard and get results”, are frankly useless at this point. Instead I have to rest, do what I am told and have faith that it will work out.  In order to move forwards, I have to let go of everything I know how to do and try to live each day with whatever challenges are coming up that day. Eventually over a course of several weeks, I am told, there will be progress. But not likely each day to the next.

As I work towards a new model of how to live with my new reality, one of my doctors, a neurologist, unsurprised by where I find myself in my recovery journey articulated a hopeful prognosis. It will be a year before the accident is in the past and not the present.  For now, for me, it continues to be very much in the present.   However, I am starting to feel more confident that by stepping back, taking it slowly and with the support,love and incredible patience of family, friends, medical support team and work colleagues, I am heading down the sometimes winding path that will eventually put it in the past. In the meantime, I finally got my teeth fixed and my children have vowed that they will never ride motorcycles- so I suppose that is a good.

There are so many people that we need to thank over the last 1/2 year or so. It's been the silver lining of this whole thing. Anyone that says that community is dead is just plain wrong. Without our community we just wouldn't have made it through. The fact that I am here and able to write this- is an ode to all of you that cared, cooked, drove, wrote, prayed, organized and hugged our kids tight.