A Traumatic Brain Injury Memoir | Free Audiobook | Chapter 1
In 1989, while I was serving in the army in Frankfurt, Germany, my son David was struck by a car while walking home from school. He was six years old and suffered a traumatic brain injury. TBI. His injuries were serious, and thankfully he survived. In 2017, I published a memoir about David's life to help parents, siblings, caregivers, and medical professionals get a better understanding of what it is like raising a child with a traumatic brain injury. "Picking Wings Off Butterflies" is available on most online bookstores. However, I've begun narrating this book in its entirety as a free audiobook for everyone to listen to on my YouTube channel. The Preface is the first video in this series. I'll be posting additional chapters as soon as I can. Thank you for listening. Your comments and questions are welcomed.
David doesn’t want your pity, but he doesn’t mind if you stare. There he sits, the left side of his face drooping slightly, the corner of his mouth suspended in a delicate, permanent frown. Today he’s sporting mismatched threads, an oversized T-shirt, a pair of filthy tennis shoes he borrowed from a friend, and camouflage pants shredded at the hems.
His arms are speckled with tattoos. Some homemade, some professional, some professionally painted to cover up the worst of the homemade ones. The tats are chaotic, prompted by the compulsivity to express his inner rebel. There’s the burning cross, a gigantic medieval dragon, two dangling skull cherries, a Celtic rose, and a Celtic dragon. There’s a large tat done in bold letters above his left elbow that shouts the name of his hero, OZZY!
Seven, homemade ink letters pepper the fingers on his left hand spelling his nickname, Skooter. David has always had a hard time planning ahead. So when he ran out of fingers and had more letters, he simply dropped down a knuckle and worked his way back across his hand.
He acquired another tat this year. This one consists of the ten letters of his last name leaping three inches high in Old English lettering spanning his shoulder blades. How did he pay for this tattoo? He traded his black, shiny moped to a friend—the would-be tattoo artist—for a deal that amounts to roughly one hundred bucks a letter.
I told him, “Look at the bright side, David. When you’re sitting at home because you don’t have any wheels, you can at least look at your back in a mirror and know who you are!”
Depending on the week, David will be sporting a different haircut. This week his noggin is showing a week and a half of growth after having been sheared like a lamb down to the bristles. A month from now it will resemble a decent barbershop cut and cap him with an air of intelligence. David will then shave the sides of his head to slash out a jagged Mohawk. As the weeks progress, the lines of the Mohawk will become more irregular, because not even a normal person can hold a razor in one hand, a handheld mirror in his other hand, and then bounce his reflection off the bathroom mirror and expect to cut straight lines.
What follows will be three weeks of spiked hair in which he looks like a pineapple. His mother, Gena, and I joke with him about his unflattering hairstyles, because advice sinks in better for him after a good laugh. About the time we convince him the Mohawk must go, he promptly shaves most of it off, starting from the crown of his head and working his way forward. But he always leaves the bangs, split by a cowlick, which dangle over his forehead for a few more weeks like a pasted-on mustache until he shaves his head again and repeats the entire process. I know this will happen again and again, because he’s been repeating this obsessive cycle since his near-death experience over two decades ago.
Continued...
In 1989, while I was serving in the army in Frankfurt, Germany, my son David was struck by a car while walking home from school. He was six years old and suffered a traumatic brain injury. TBI. His injuries were serious, and thankfully he survived. In 2017, I published a memoir about David’s life to help parents, siblings, caregivers, and medical professionals get a better understanding of what it is like raising a child with a traumatic brain injury. “Picking Wings Off Butterflies” is available on most online bookstores. However, I’ve begun narrating this book in its entirety as a free audiobook for everyone to listen to on my YouTube channel. The Preface is the first video in this series. I’ll be posting additional chapters as soon as I can. Thank you for listening. Your comments and questions are welcomed.
David doesn’t want your pity, but he doesn’t mind if you stare. There he sits, the left side of his face drooping slightly, the corner of his mouth suspended in a delicate, permanent frown. Today he’s sporting mismatched threads, an oversized T-shirt, a pair of filthy tennis shoes he borrowed from a friend, and camouflage pants shredded at the hems.
His arms are speckled with tattoos. Some homemade, some professional, some professionally painted to cover up the worst of the homemade ones. The tats are chaotic, prompted by the compulsivity to express his inner rebel. There’s the burning cross, a gigantic medieval dragon, two dangling skull cherries, a Celtic rose, and a Celtic dragon. There’s a large tat done in bold letters above his left elbow that shouts the name of his hero, OZZY!
Seven, homemade ink letters pepper the fingers on his left hand spelling his nickname, Skooter. David has always had a hard time planning ahead. So when he ran out of fingers and had more letters, he simply dropped down a knuckle and worked his way back across his hand.
He acquired another tat this year. This one consists of the ten letters of his last name leaping three inches high in Old English lettering spanning his shoulder blades. How did he pay for this tattoo? He traded his black, shiny moped to a friend—the would-be tattoo artist—for a deal that amounts to roughly one hundred bucks a letter.
I told him, “Look at the bright side, David. When you’re sitting at home because you don’t have any wheels, you can at least look at your back in a mirror and know who you are!”
Depending on the week, David will be sporting a different haircut. This week his noggin is showing a week and a half of growth after having been sheared like a lamb down to the bristles. A month from now it will resemble a decent barbershop cut and cap him with an air of intelligence. David will then shave the sides of his head to slash out a jagged Mohawk. As the weeks progress, the lines of the Mohawk will become more irregular, because not even a normal person can hold a razor in one hand, a handheld mirror in his other hand, and then bounce his reflection off the bathroom mirror and expect to cut straight lines.
What follows will be three weeks of spiked hair in which he looks like a pineapple. His mother, Gena, and I joke with him about his unflattering hairstyles, because advice sinks in better for him after a good laugh. About the time we convince him the Mohawk must go, he promptly shaves most of it off, starting from the crown of his head and working his way forward. But he always leaves the bangs, split by a cowlick, which dangle over his forehead for a few more weeks like a pasted-on mustache until he shaves his head again and repeats the entire process. I know this will happen again and again, because he’s been repeating this obsessive cycle since his near-death experience over two decades ago.
Continued…
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