I was bleeding truth

I’m in a strange place.

Even the familiar, seems unfamiliar.

I feel like I’m frozen in time, while the rest of the world zips by me on fast forward.

Do they see me?

Do they know I’m watching them?

I’m distracted by everything.  Everyone.

I’m searching for distractions.  Distractions that will make me feel something.  Anything.

I’m numb.

Last night, I found myself curled in a ball on the floor of my bedroom.  I collapsed into myself.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Screaming.

Alone, thankfully.

Even for me, it was scary to watch.

I needed that.  Oh, how I needed that.

A moment of clarity.  A moment of truth.  A moment of strength.  A moment.  An instant.  It was not weakness, quite the opposite.  It was the result of having had to be strong for so long.  Every part of me was oozing strength.  Courage.

I was bleeding truth.

34 years.  So much pain.  I unravelled.  Came undone.  Allowed myself to feel everything.  Slowly, then all at once.  I removed my distractions and just felt life.  The overwhelming pace.  The never ending search for happiness.  Peace.  Love.  Success.

I asked myself what it was all for.  I asked questions and I allowed myself to answer them.  Truthfully.  Without distractions.

Just me and my heart and my mind and my body and my soul.

I was bleeding truth.

There are two other moments in my life where I found myself in this way; one was the day I tried to kill myself 17 years ago.

I was 17 years old.  Beautiful.  Tortured.  Sitting on my bed, in a house that was no longer mine.  One that never felt like mine to begin with.  I didn’t know who I was anymore.  I was so lost.

I was bleeding truth.

I stared at the pills for hours.  Hours.

My radio was set to play the same song, on repeat.  The same song over and over.  Every word a reminder.

I had pills.  I had water.  I had pain.  I had nothing and everything.

I was bleeding truth.

The first pill was the hardest, it took me hours to swallow it.  The rest went down easily.  One by one.  One pill, one sip of water.  One pill, one sip of water.  If I stopped the routine for even a second, I might change my mind.  One pill, one sip of water.  One pill, one sip of water.

I was bleeding truth.

My sister found me.  I remember her eyes.  The look of terror.  Fear.  I still can’t forget them.  She was the first person I truly loved.  My constant.  I saw in her eyes, what her life would look like without me.  I couldn’t put her through that, no matter how much I hurt.

I’ve never fought so hard to live as I did that day.  Being rushed to the hospital and everything that followed.  I found my truth.  My purpose.  My hunger for life.  My love.

I was bleeding truth.

The end of my first 17 years was filled with both life and death.  The day of my birth.  April 12, 1998.

Here I am, 15 days shy of the end of my next 17.  Suffocated by life.  Surrounded by death.  I find myself on the floor, crying.  In a house that no longer feels like my own.  My radio set to play the same song, on repeat. The same song over and over. Every word a reminder.

Without even realizing it, I had painted a scene that was familiar.  Comfortable.  The last time I knew what it felt like to be desperate to live.  What it felt like to find my truth.  My purpose.  My love.  That meaning.  That hunger.

I came undone in order to come back to me.  I rid myself of distractions in order to reconnect with my truth.  I fell apart only to come back together again, whole.

I was bleeding truth.

I know what it’s like to be afraid of my own mind.  But I am not afraid.  I’m fucking fascinated by the way it shows me exactly what I need to see, when I need to see it.  I thought for a second I was losing myself, but I was simply being shown the way to find myself again.

When I eliminated the distractions, I was able to find clarity.

Today, I make the decision to disconnect in order to reconnect.  I’ve decided to unplug myself from social media.  From Facebook.  From Instagram. When we focus to much on the perfection others portray publicly, we believe that to be reality.  We forget that we are not alone in our pain.  Our struggles.  I want to experience the world as it is, not as it appears.

For a while anyway.

Today almost sucked. 

I’m continuing to battle this nasty respiratory thing.  My lungs are no longer hurting, which is great, but I’ve been left with a dry, hacking cough.  There is very little relief that isn’t extremely temporary at this point.  Lozenges help for a couple minutes. Water helps for a couple more.  Still, it’s been non stop action at work as I enter my final week in Sierra Leone.  It’s going to be a busy one. 

This cough has kept me from getting a solid night of sleep for a few days.  I’m exhausted and feeling quite run down.  Last night, I woke up in a pool of sweat at 4am.  I got up to rehydrate myself and could barely breathe with all the coughing.  As I checked my phone for the time, I saw a message from Jeremy. The message was sent four hours earlier to inform me that my mother had an accident at work.  She tripped over some electrical cords and dislocated her shoulder in the fall.  She was taken to the hospital and had to be put under in order to get her shoulder reset.  

Here I am at 4am. Tired. Dehydrated. Sick as shit. And now wide awake at the thought of my mommy getting hurt on the other side of the world.  

Good luck getting back to sleep after that!!!!

I message Jeremy for an update, he tells me he spoke to her earlier and she sounded alright, likely because of the pain meds.

My mother is 65 years old, her health is a constant worry for me.  She never seems to be truly well and it’s like pulling teeth to get information from her.  She is not the picture of health on a good day, neither of my parents are, but she’s had an exceptionally rough last few months.   Still, being near her, I’m often the one who meets her at the hospital following medical procedures.  I’m happy to hear that my sister was able to meet her, but sad that I wasn’t available for her when she was likely scared, mostly alone and in so much pain.

At 4am, so many thoughts go through my mind.  I try to stop thinking but it’s obvious that sleep is out of the question.  I get up to shower at 6:30am, go for breakfast at 7am, and prepare for a day of workshop facilitation for 50 of our local staff members. 

The first workshop starts at 9am.  I’m co-facilitating with Claire, but I have the first half of the session.  About 20 minutes in, I break into a coughing fit and have to stop for water.  

I get that awful feeling you get when your throat is so dry and you can’t stop coughing.  My eyes start watering and I feel like I’m going to throw up. Awesome.  I somehow get over that and continue to facilitate while still feeling incredibly nauseous.  After a little while, I ask Claire to take over.  I sit for a while. Exhausted. Sick. Nauseous. And I start worrying about my mother again.  

This sucks. 

I’m trying to keep it together but eventually have to leave the room for some air.  I start to feel better and go back in just in time for our small group breakout.  I walk around helping everyone with their discussions, start coughing again and have to leave. This goes on for the next hour and a half before our first session ends. 

I start to feel better during lunch, and opt to stick around for the second session. 

I make it through my whole speaking part before getting sick again.  Then it’s a repeat of the morning session until we finally finish at 4pm. 

I somehow manage to keep it together enough so that the local staff don’t notice how sick I feel.  They are amazing and I want them to get whatever they can from our sessions together.  If they knew how sick I was, they would have turned their attention to taking care of me.  That wouldn’t be good for anyone. 

By the time we clean up, wait for the driver, pack the car and go home, I have about an hour to rest before dinner. 

My colleague and I planned a team appreciation dinner for our local staff for tonight.  It has been difficult for everyone since the staff reduction, where 3 of 7 were asked to stop working in the ETC and be on standby.  We decided to invite all of them out for a nice “family meal” in order to celebrate the overall accomplishments of the psychosocial/community health team.

Our team doesn’t always get along well with my colleague and I know that being sick tonight is really not an option.  So, despite having a somewhat miserable day, I get dressed and ready to go.

But first, a phone call to my mother.  

She doesn’t recognize my voice and immediately gets concerned when she realizes it’s me and how sick I sound.  She asks about the doctor who contracted Ebola and is now in the US, the nurse from the UK with Ebola and my colleague who recently went home with malaria.  I guess she has just as much reason to worry as I do.  I speak to my dad briefly, he starts crying and hands the phone back to my mom, who is also crying now.  I’m happy to hear that she is feeling alright, and I tell them both that I love them and will see them soon. Time to drag myself out of my room to the waiting car. 

Today continues to suck. 

We arrived at the restaurant and wait for the rest of the team to show up. When they get there, they thank us for the opportunity to have this meal together and begin with “the program”.  I’m laughing as I realize they have used this opportunity to say an early goodbye to me and my colleague, as it is unlikely we will all be together in one place again.  Listening to the agenda of this program, I’m not really sure how this meal is going to go. Still, we are all in good spirits….on with the program. 

We open with a Christian prayer by Ernest, followed by a Muslim prayer by Adbul.  One of the most beautiful things I’ve experienced in Sierra Leone is the freedom to practice your religion.  Sierra Leone is approximately 70% Muslim and the remainder is mostly Christian (with a few others).  There is no division between the two, both are respected equally and they pride themselves on that.  Meetings usually start with either a generic prayer, or one of each.  

After the prayers, we move into the “do’s and dont’s for Sandra”.  This is where we go around the table and each member of the team gives me their impression of me, a brief summary of our experience together, things I do well and areas of improvement.  This is done with nothing but love and so, although somewhat nervous, I embrace the process and sit back with a smile. 

Michael is up first. 

“Sandra is beautiful.  She is really beautiful.  She is truly a beautiful person, on the outside but also on the inside…”

So far, I like this part of the program. 

I sit there quietly, taking in every beautiful word spoken.  You rarely get the opportunity to hear what kind of impact you’ve had on someone or what impression you’ve left with them.  This open sharing of gratitude is overwhelming.  I receive every word with an open heart and a big smile.

“You could never know Sandra just by looking at her.  You wouldn’t be able to understand her depth and passion and knowledge if you judged her solely by her appearance…”

“…Sandra is a very curious person. She asks questions, not because she needs to know everything but because she genuinely cares to know about everyone.  You feel comfortable talking about anything and everything with her…”

“One thing I really admire about Sandra is that she is a person who minds her own business.  She knows what she needs to do, and cuts right through the drama and gossip to get it done.  Sandra brings peace wherever she goes…”

“From the minute Sandra walked into that tent, you could feel that she was completely unassuming…”

And although there were a lot more “Sandra is beautiful” comments in there, which I always appreciate, my absolute favourite was a story that Abdul shared. 

Abdul and I only worked together for one shift before he was out on standby.  That meant we spent 7 hours together in my month at the ETC. Last week, I started to co-facilitate a resume workshop for the local staff that had been put on standby.  The first day, there was a communication error and we had 47 participants in one session and only 4 in another.  Adbul and Sandi, both staff on my team, attended the second one. I hadn’t seen either of them since the reduction.  We had three facilitators in the room and one participant when Abdul walked in.  I was so happy to see him.  This is the part of the story he shared…

“When I walked into that empty room, I was very uncomfortable. I didn’t know the other facilitators and I didn’t think Sandra would remember me because our time was brief.  I didn’t want to have to introduce myself.  Before I could even sit down or say anything, Sandra turned to me with a big smile on her face and then said to everyone, “this is Abdul, he is part of my team.”  She really touched me with that and lit up my heart.  She knows exactly what to do without ever being asked…”

That was beautiful. The whole thing was beautiful.  Not one piece of criticism, not one negative thought or feeling, just love.  I felt myself getting emotional as I thanked them all and told them what an honour it had been to spend the last month as part of their family.

The program went on. 

Ernest gave a brief history of Sierra Leone, how the civil war started and ended, the positives and negatives that came from the war and finally moving in to the historical corruption in the country. 

This was the perfect Segway to Michael’s brief snapshot of how the government in Sierra Leone works, the current political situation, hopes for the future, and some info on the situation with the Vice President that has escalated into us being on a heightened security, limited movement, lockdown of sort.  (Google it for more info, I don’t want to get into this now. Don’t tell my mother though, she worries). 

Next up was Abdul. He’s the comedian of the bunch so his role was to tell a few jokes.  This program continues to be awesome. 

Then we did the do’s and dont’s of my colleague.  It started with “he has a very flat personality…”  I started to worry that this might not end well but it was also full of love and all criticism was completely constructive. In all honesty, I thought they really took it easy on him.  I was glad they did because the evening was great.  Sandi ended us off with a Christian prayer, Ibrahim gave us the Muslim prayer and we all kept Jestina in our thoughts; the only missing team member who is currently struggling with a medical emergency in her family.

We said our goodbyes and my colleague and I sat and waited for the car.  The first thing out of his mouth almost ruined a perfect evening.  After what had just happened, I refused to allow any of his negative energy bother me. 

Today almost sucked, but it didn’t.


 

 

 

 

Systems (spoken word)

To say the system is broken
Is a fucking joke
A broken system is the
Only one we’ve ever known
For it to break it has to mean
It once functioned well
Too few in paradise
With the rest living our system’s hell
I still carry all the scars
Of walking through that fire
Channeled anger and the pain
Into a passionate desire
People questioned why I walked into
The system on my own two feet
But I travel the opposite direction
On this one way street
Change comes from within
So I knew I had to infiltrate
And so I sat and mapped out
Every move I had to make
Didn’t make it the first time I tried
Cause I was too political
So I mastered the ancient art
Of playing two different roles
Now I play both sides of the coin
Because I have to
Just as comfortable in kicks
As fancy business suits
Never hiding from my demons
I make my failures known
All the mistakes I made in life
The only way I’ve ever grown
I spill my secrets
So they don’t use them against me
Making sure the power
Stays where it’s supposed to be
And so they fear the things that
they will never understand
I don’t play by the same rules
So they try to force my hand
But outside their walls
People are blowing up their telephones
Telling them I’m changing lives
Of people they don’t care to know
Too many calls to ignore
But they want to see my contract ended
So they hand me my awards
As I walk out the door suspended
I keep a smile on my face
Cause that means more to me
Than any discipline the system
Can bring down on me
Five steps ahead is where I stay
So I get my apology
When you grow up on the streets
You learn how not to be beat
People ask me if I’m scared
To walk the streets at night
So much evil in the world
Ready for a fight
how do you fear
The only thing you’ve ever known
In city hall is where
I feel most alone
Scratching my skin
Because the egos make me itchy
I bite my tongue because
the bullshit makes me twitchy
But within the larger system
I don’t walk alone
There are a few of us
That really make it feel like home
Take my message with me
Across every division
I carry my head high
Because I know my mission
Create our own paradise
And increase the population
Fix this fucking system
And become a beautiful united nation

And then my life was changed…

When I was a toddler, I jumped head first into a set of concrete stairs.  Hello stitches.

At 10, I walked my skull into a full swing of a baseball bat.  Wrong place, wrong time.  Pay attention kiddies!!!

22 years old, snowmobiling accident.  First documented concussion. 

I can’t blame doctors for what they didn’t know for certain.  This was long before concussions were taken seriously.  Sure, the medical world was aware of them, but the recovery was simple.  Don’t let a concussed person sleep!!!  Okie dokie.  No sleep for me.  At 22, pain is easily forgotten.  Pushed aside.  Neglected.  What brain injury?!?! 

23, extreme water tubing accident resulting in an elbow to my head.  Instant egg sized bump, neck jerked violently.  Had me seeing stars. 

25, my love for bungy jumping strikes again.  Who doesn’t love a little whiplash?!?! 

They didn’t know and so I didn’t know.  They didn’t care and so, why should I have?!?! 

Fast forward, 30 years old.  Family vacation to Montreal.  24 hour stomach bugs all around.  I was the last one standing, until that night.  3am, I awoke to severe nausea.  It was going to come out, one way or the other, I wasn’t sure yet.  I quietly snuck into the bathroom without waking my husband or my kids.  I don’t remember much after that.  I woke up, the top half of my body was in the bathtub, the bottom was out.  I mumbled as loudly as I could, so confused.  My neck hurt.  I didn’t know at the time that I had soiled myself, so confused.  Where was I?  How the hell did I get there?  I called out again for my husband.  It could have been seconds but it felt like hours before he found me.  I remember him sitting me on the toilet and then I fell onto the sink.  I passed out 3 more times before the ambulance arrived.  I have never been so afraid in my life.  Everything was foggy, dreamlike, still so confusing.  They rushed me to the hospital, alone.  My husband had to stay with the kids, who miraculously slept through the traumatic event.  I was in another province, away from everything and everyone I knew, alone.  I don’t remember getting to the hospital.  I told them my neck hurt.  I said it to everyone I encountered but no one could hear me.  Finally, they did, and everything became that much more of an emergency.  I remember yelling as they strapped me to a board.  Screaming in pain as they violently struggled to insert a catheter inside me.  15 terrifying hours, multiple tests and scans later, I was with my family again.  My blood pressure was finally stabilized and I was discharged with a simple diagnosis.  Concussion.  No further explanation could be given.  Concussion.  I could leave the province and report to my doctor immediately after getting home.  Concussion.  That word meant more to me this time.  The following week was excruciating.  The migraines, the light sensitivity, the pain had me in curled up in a ball on my bed in tears.  I couldn’t eat.  I couldn’t speak.  I couldn’t think.  I forgot how to spell.  I couldn’t remember what I was doing, or talking about, or anything.  Back to the hospital I went.  The next words, I didn’t know it at the time, would change the rest of my life.  Post-Concussion Syndrome.  Me?  What the hell does that mean for me?  The world had just watched Sydney Crosby, a hockey player at the top of his game, suffer through the same thing.  What he did for concussions was game changing.  Suddenly, the medical world took notice.  Things were different now.  It was all over the news.  I knew exactly what it meant for me.  It meant that everything I had ever known was about to change.  They told me it could take months, years or forever to get back to where I was.  Seriously.  That’s what they said.  Just like that.  Sorry lady, but welcome to never knowing or understanding your brain again.  Well fuck that and fuck you.  I’ll show them.  Or so I thought.  Eager to get back to the Sandra I knew and loved, I took a solid 3 weeks off work.  Against all orders from every doctor and my family, I rushed to get back there.  I didn’t listen.  I never was very good at listening anyway.  By the end of the first day, I knew it was bad.  I knew but I didn’t care.  The second day would be better.  That’s what I told myself.  I made it a week before my symptoms went back to the way they were that day in the hospital.  The doctor told me what I desperately did not want to hear, that every bit of recovery I had made was completely erased by my idiotic decision to return to work.  I spent the next 3 months off work.  Resting.  Slowly, VERY slowly, becoming myself again.  There were days when I didn’t think I would make it.  I lost so much of myself, I didn’t know who I was anymore.  Spending that time with those I loved, helped the healing.  I took the experience as a message to slow down.  To appreciate the things I did have.  As I got healthier and grew stronger, I wasn’t the same person, I was better.  By the time I returned to work, I was well on my way to healing.  I was able to exercise and be active again.  My memory was becoming more clear.  Physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually, I was in a great place.

Just before my 32rd birthday, my family and I were having a leisurely skate.  A little boy was recklessly skating around the rink.  I didn’t even see him coming.  He skated full speed into the back of both my legs.  They were lifted off the ice and I had no where to go but down.  My head hit so violently that I couldn’t see.  I immediately began to cry.  I cried not for the pain, but because I knew exactly what this meant for me.  When you’ve had a traumatic brain injury, even the slightest hit could be severely damaging.  This was exactly that.  I was taken to the hospital immediately.  The doctor didn’t even have to say it, I was in tears before the word came out of his mouth.  I knew that look.  Concussion.  I went back and forth from “Sandra, you’ve done this before and you can do it again” to “Sandra, you’ve done this before and you can’t do it again.”  I knew what to prepare for.  Pain.  Migraines.  Memory loss.  Fogginess.  I thought I knew.  But then something happened.  Something I didn’t expect.  Post-Concussion Syndrome again.  I was prepared for the long term.  For the weeks, months, years or never.  What I wasn’t prepared for was the insomnia.  A symptom I had never had before.  Insomnia.  I couldn’t sleep.  I lay in bed all night, nothing.  Wide awake.  Nothing.  When I say I thought I was losing my mind, please don’t take it lightly.  I truly thought I was losing my mind.  I tried everything.  I could NOT sleep.  This was further complicated by my former drug abuse.  Sleeping pills are highly addictive and in the state I was in, I did NOT want to play with fire.  THIS was worse than anything I had felt before.  I was off work for 3 months with an additional 3 month modified schedule.  I had never been so serious about recovery in my life.  I did everything I had to do to get better.  I took a sleeping pill and finally got some sleep.  I set guidelines with myself and my husband about how often I would take them.  I surrounded myself with nothing but love and support.  There was nothing negative allowed into my personal bubble.  It was a game I HAD to win.  My memory took a beating this time around.  I made more lists.  The family relied on my to keep schedules, pay bills, make appointments.  I asked for help.  I slowly added more and more physical activity, finally able to return to most of my non-contact sports.  I was able to get some naps during the day.  Melatonin helped at night.  In 6 months, I allowed myself to take 15 sleeping pills.  I laughed.  I loved.  I, once again, was grateful for all the amazing things I had in my life.

4 months after returning to work full time, my blood pressure drops rapidly in the shower.  I wake up on the bathroom floor, my husband sitting over me.  Yes, I hit my head on the way down.  I hit the area of the brain that affects memory.  My memory was affected.  Badly.  The word Concussion doesn’t carry the same power over me anymore.  The potential risks for my future, I am aware of those.  What I’ve learned is that nothing is stronger than my will to survive.  To fight.  To be me.   

Some call it bad luck.  Some joke that I should live in a bubble.  The last few years have been the most challenging years of my life.  I’m not the same person I was.  In some ways, that’s a good thing.  In other ways, not so good.  All I know is that I hit my head…and then my life was changed.