2018 was starting to become a difficult year.  I was 40 years old and preparing to be a single mother of four children.  I had been divorced for 5 years from the father of my oldest three children - Corbin, Grace, and Cohen - and my relationship with Steve, the father of my youngest child, Grayson, was ending.  The 4th of July had snuck up on me that year with everything going on and falling on a Wednesday in the middle of the week.  Normally I would have a party at home with friends and family but with the stress of paying bills on my own I agreed to a double shift instead.  Rather than everyone being together, the children all made plans with friends.  My oldest child, Corbin, wanted to float down the river on tubes with some friends.  Even though he was already 16, I was still a little hesitant about letting him go. Corbin was a good kid.  He worked as many hours as he could so he had a truck to drive, did well in school, was never in trouble and really had taken on the man of the house role helping me with everything he was asked. He was a mature and responsible child but teenage boys will be teenage boys regardless.  I feel like I’ve always been a little over protective and as a parent you struggle with the balance between not wanting to keep them in a bubble and not giving too much freedom.  Reluctantly, I agreed.

Before I left for work I wanted to verify the plans with Corbin one last time.  Corbin was in the bathroom when I came downstairs.  He had just gotten out of the shower so he was speaking to me through the door. I wanted to see him, and of course I wanted to give him a hug goodbye, but he argued a little and told me he would call me with his plans. I was running late, so we said goodbye through the door.

That day at work, my first and only customer was a man I hadn't seen in years.  His son and Corbin used to go to school together.  We started talking about how scary it is when kids grow up, get their licenses, and go out on their own – celebrating holidays with friends rather than family.  He started telling me a story about how his son had just gotten into a car accident on the highway.  Luckily no one involved, including his son, was injured.  Before he could finish the story, I got a text message from Steve, Grayson’s father, “It’s an emergency!” it said. He was out of town with my two-year-old son that day and all I could think was that something must have happened with my child.  I interrupted my customer and excused myself to make a phone call. 

It wasn't my son, it was my nephew.  An emergency location-tracking app sent a notification to my sister-in-law that my nephew, Tanna, had been in an accident and was trapped in the vehicle.  My sister-in-law couldn't get a hold of me so they called Steve to find me.  They knew I was the closest person to the accident.  I immediately asked where and if he was okay before realizing that Corbin was supposed to be with him. But Corbin hadn't called me yet to tell me he was leaving so Corbin couldn't be with him, I tried to tell myself. 

The short drive down that road felt like it took an hour.  It was like watching a horror movie when you hear the terrifying music and you just know something awful is about to happen.  I didn't know what I was going to see.  I came around the corner to see several flashing lights. What was once a tar road was now covered in so much dirt it felt like a different road.  There were branches and large pieces of wood everywhere.  I drove as close as I could, then got out of my car and started sprinting towards the wreck until a police officer stopped me.  I was blank, - none of this felt real, like this isn't my life, this can't be happening.  I could barely speak while looking at a white convertible, with a dark interior, on its side up against a tree.  But I only saw one car and none of Corbin’s friends had a white convertible.  I was confused.  I looked at the officer and said, “I think my nephew was in this accident.”  He asked his name and verified that he was.  It took all I had in me to ask him if Corbin was also in the car.  Yes, he confirmed.

There had been 4 boys in the car and Corbin’s injuries were the most severe, he told me.    “What do you mean most severe, what kind of injuries?” I asked.  “He was alive when he left in the ambulance,” is all he told me. Not comforting words to a mother seeking answers.  I ran back to my car and raced to the hospital.  I think I made 100 frantic phone calls on the way. I called my daughter Grace to tell her Corbin was in the accident and ask who drove a white convertible with red stickers.  She said it was his friend, Tyler.  They weren’t driving a convertible – the roof had been removed to get the boys out.  The car had a light interior, not dark, but the seats were now covered in blood. 

When I arrived at the hospital my mom and sister in law were standing in the ER trying to get information, and more and more friends and family kept showing up. After what felt like an hour, a nurse walked in and asked which one of us was Corbin’s mother and I stood up.  She said, “Come with me.”  As we started to walk down the hallway she wrapped her arms around me and braced me like I was going to fall.  She said nothing. She just held me up. Then, all of a sudden, there he was.  Corbin was on a stretcher - naked and lifeless - with 20 people around him rushing in and out of the large room.  He was covered in blood and hooked up to all kind of machines.  The nurse pulled up a chair and told me to sit. My brother had come with us and was standing behind me rubbing my shoulders trying to reassure me that Corbin was going to be ok, he was going to pull through this.  It felt like standing still in the middle of a freeway while everything flies past you.  No one told me what was going on, no one explained his injuries or what they were doing to him.  I had no idea why they had brought me down to see this and before I knew it, the same nurse grabbed me and walked me back to the waiting room.  I had no information to report except the horror I had seen. I felt helpless.

Eventually a doctor rushed into the room and told us Corbin had suffered a severe head injury and that they might need to remove part of his skull to let his brain swell. He had internal bleeding and punctured lungs among many other injuries, and they were rushing him into surgery.  I signed the consent and asked what his chances were.  She wouldn't give a straight answer.  She just reiterated how severe his injuries were and ran out the door.

I just kept telling myself “not Corbin, not my child.” I felt like I was trying to will him out of this, and I wasn't going to stop.

A few hours had gone by at this point and about 30 friends and family had shown up, including Corbin’s cousin Paul.  Paul had worked in the medical field for years.  He had been a 911 operator as well as a member of a medical transport team in Boston for 9 years.  He asked me what I knew and if I felt like I had all of the information I needed.  Of course I didn't. I felt lost. He brought me back down to the ER and asked the doctor, who had worked on Corbin, if we could speak to him.  He agreed and the three of us sat down.  Paul asked all kinds of medical questions and I just remember being blank.  I just wanted to know if my son was going to live.  At the end of the conversation Paul asked “if Corbin survives surgery do you think he should be transported to a level one trauma center?”  The doctor said no, he believed their team could handle it.  We thanked him and went back upstairs.  Paul explained the difference in hospitals to me on the way upstairs and how a level one trauma center deals with these kinds of severe traumas every day.  Paul believed that’s where Corbin should go, should he make it through surgery.  I trusted him and agreed.

He survived the surgery—a huge victory but then the surgeon and a neurologist came to talk to us.  Corbin had no brain activity, the neurologist said, and he wasn't going to survive. We needed to prepare to say good bye.  “WAIT WHAT???!!!” Everyone started sobbing or screaming.  I was just thinking “NO! NO! He’s alive, I’ll take him anyway I can get him.”  I felt like they were giving up.  I refused to start grieving.  Two of my other children, Grace and Cohen, came over and were on my lap crying.  I was trying to console them by hugging them but I couldn't speak.  There were no words.  I felt very robotic.  My mother was loudly sobbing but growing increasingly more concerned with my lack of reaction.  I heard her tell the Doctor she needed to give me something because I was in shock. Corbin’s dad Jeff, who had just arrived, ran through the hall screaming “not my boy!”  Aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends were all in groups hugging each other and crying, but they all keep looking over at me. The surgeon came over and knelt beside me, she started rubbing my arm and explaining how bad his head injury was.  I just looked at her and said “but he’s alive?” She said “yes but….” I interrupted, “then I want him transferred to Boston Children’s Hospital and I want to see him.”  She said “well I don't know if they'll take him, he might not be stable enough.”  I insisted.  She agreed to try and walked away. I knew she took me seriously.  I have a laid-back personality for the most part until we’re dealing with my children - then a whole other protective, ‘don't stand in my way,’ side comes out.

They let Corbin’s dad and I in to see him.  Corbin was so broken, barely recognizable, but I felt comfort being by his side, feeling his warm hand and watching his chest slowly move up and down, even if a machine was making it happen.  He had multiple facial and spinal fractures, several skull fractures with one even pinching off a main artery to his brain, two punctured lungs, torn bowels, two broken shoulder blades, a collar bone broken in two different spots, internal bleeding, brain bleeds, and many more injuries. Within an hour, Corbin was on a helicopter to Boston.  Steve and I stood in the ER as we watched them take off with Corbin.  Another helpless feeling.  Protecting him felt out of my control when I couldn't be near him.  

Corbin went through a lot in that first 24 hours.  Concord Hospital had removed his spleen, repaired a torn bowel, placed a monitor in his skull and left an open incision in his abdomen from his pelvis to his ribs.  Once in Boston he was rushed into a second surgery and had a second monitor with a drain placed in his skull, internal bleeding repaired and more than half of his blood transfused. 

We spent the next 50 nights, with the majority of them in the ICU, at Boston Children’s Hospital.  At first our goal was for him to survive the next 24 hours… and then the next 48 hours… and then the next 72 hours… and even when they finally believed he would survive, they told me they didn't believe he would regain much brain function. “Not Corbin, Not my child,” I kept saying.  I was given so many negative predictions that eventually I just stopped listening.  I couldn't help but believe that Corbin was still in that body.  Corbin’s sister and I spent every night in that room with him.  We played his favorite music, we read him sports news, we told him stories, we brought familiar things from home like is pillowcase and favorite blanket so that he might recognize the smell.

The first day he opened his eye and looked at me, I finally saw Corbin.  I didn't see a blank stare. He was in there. Still, the doctors told me he would most likely need to spend the rest of his life in a long-term care facility, but I never gave up. I told the doctors I knew he was capable of more - he just needed more time.

Corbin was awake but not for long periods.  He had just started to respond yes and no through thumbs up or down, sometimes.  He had a tracheostomy tube for his airway and a feeding tube for his nutrition.  He was still on monitors and many medications, but slowly, he got better.

50 days after his accident Spaulding Rehab hospital finally agreed to take him. I felt like we had won the lottery. It had all paid off.  All the sleepless nights, all the persistence, all the never giving up even when you have the most intelligent doctors in the world giving you negative information.  I knew we were going to do this, I knew everything was going to be alright. 

When he first got to Spaulding, he wasn’t talking or walking. He had a feeding tube and a tracheostomy. But he spent 41 days pushing his body and his mind to do things we were told he would never do again. On November 1st, he walked out of Spaulding, talking and eating regular food.

91 days after I was told to say goodbye to Corbin, he was back home with his family and so close to his old self. He graduated from High School last month. But our lives are forever changed.  Our days are still filled with tutoring and therapy, but I wouldn't change any of it for a second.  We cherish the time we have now - the times we have nothing to do but sit around the kitchen counter and just talk and laugh - that we would have taken for granted before.  When you are faced with never seeing a loved one again, never being able to hug them or kiss them, you realize how much every moment counts.  I had a nurse at Spaulding tell me that the support Corbin had is why he made this kind of recovery.  She said she had been doing the job for years, and yes of course the medical part of it plays a huge role. But beyond just being alive, Corbin thrived.  Having his family by his side, showing him the love and support, is what gives people the will to fight and keep pushing. I believe in the power of love and positivity.

So many people have told me they wouldn't have been able to do the things I’ve done, but I don't believe that.  I believe we all have an inner strength we know nothing about until we’re put to this kind of test.  We have to keep positivity even when there seems to be nothing to be positive about.  Find the smallest thing and hold onto it.  For me, it was the fact Corbin was alive.  As long as he was still alive, I wasn't giving up. 

I met Denise last spring, in a 6-week Narrative Medicine course I co-taught for social workers. She stands out in my memory of the group in many ways: her outfits were always exquisitely coordinated; her eyes sparkled and often glistened with tears; she easily offered humor, truth, and consolation. She always made comments that illuminated the texts we read together in ways I had not previously considered. Perhaps most striking of all was how profoundly the workshop seemed to impact Denise: “It was a monumental experience for me, in my life, as a clinician and as a person.”

For 28 years, Denise has been serving victims of trauma in Brooklyn and Queens. Although she considers herself strong emotionally and mentally, she inevitably experiences vicarious trauma through her work. Narrative medicine - a field based in the belief that effective clinicians must know how to receive, interpret, and help craft their clients’ stories - offers her a means to work through some of that trauma: “(It) is a healing measure that I can tap into that will keep me grounded, keep me available, keep me conscious. To never ever find myself in a position of ‘Oh, I’ve heard this, I’ve seen this before…’ No. Each time is my first time with that person. And (narrative practice) helps with that.”

As traditional narrative medicine occurs in a classroom, the course consisted of closely reading and discussing a piece of poetry or prose every week. Then each participant, facilitators included, composed a brief response to a prompt related to the reading, and shared our writing aloud with one another.

Denise has always used writing to sort out her experiences. But the practice of narrative medicine expanded her appreciation for the power of the written word: “Reading someone else’s writing and trying to make sense of it, how I might interpret it, and then using that to be able to reflect and write about a personal experience I’ve had – that blew me away.”

Denise models how clinicians can incorporate narrative practice into both their personal and professional life. She finds it helpful to do on her own during a busy day at work: “Sometimes I’ll have to sit in my office and close my door and start writing a thought that I had about an experience I just had with someone, and it’s safe. It’s in a place where I know I can go back to it. I can ground myself. I can be in a place of objectivity instead of subjectivity.”

Denise also introduces her clients to their own narratives during therapeutic encounters, by asking: “What was the first thing you thought when this happened to you?” She observes how an invitation for them to tell their first-hand experience of the trauma “allows them to push everyone else to the side. Often people don’t think about their first thought, their first emotion. And that gets them to a place where they can write a (first-person) narrative.” 

She guides them to develop their story, through writing or speaking: “Some write a paragraph, some only write three sentences. And those three sentences we can talk about for weeks. Some of them choose not to write at all, but instead to record their own voices. And they save those recordings in their phone, and they (listen to it) every so often.” Some of her younger clients even choose to narrate through rap.

Once they begin writing - songs, lyrics, poems, any genre - Denise sees them “healing and moving forward towards closure. They’re experiencing and developing or recognizing skills they had but suppressed or pushed to the side, because they didn’t consider it important. But it’s that very strength they have in them that draws them to a place of healing.” There is a sense of ownership, mastery, and pride that they gain from becoming authors of their life experiences.

Denise encourages her clients to see themselves as she sees them: individuals who have experienced traumatic events, not victims whose stories can be lumped together in domestic violence tropes. She discourages them from telling their stories as: “I’m a victim of domestic violence and this is what we victims of domestic violence…” Denise instead tries to help each client realize, through crafting a unique story, that “You’re an individual. This is what you went through. How did it affect you: your thoughts, your body, your emotions? I want them to be able to write that out. That narrative is so crucial.”

Denise recognizes, in herself and her clients, the radical changes that narrative practice can cause: “It keeps you from being stuck and unmoveable, to a place where there is mobility, and there are choices. And those choices can be so powerful that it can get people to move from A to B, but in some cases all the way down to Z (where they) find closure.”

Denise vows to carry onward in her clinical practice and personal life using narrative medicine as an unparalleled resource: “This story practice…I don’t think that there’s any medication that people can take that does the particular piece that this work does. On a cognitive level, physical level, emotional level – it’s not anything that can be replicated anywhere else.”

Below is a poem Denise wrote in honor of her clients and their experiences.

Out of the Darkness

Wounded outside in

I felt as though I have sinned

Wounded inside out

Oh how I wanted to shout

But there was no way out

Confused by the tormenting of my mind

It often told me to flee

And escape this life of mine

These intrusive thoughts

Powerful and fierce

Lead me into a world of

Self-affliction and fear

In the shadow and secret nights

You told me I was your Queen

Once you called me wife

Confused by your touch

Why did you love me so much?

Your hands strong and mighty

Forming a fist that would crush my body

So, still I stood, unaware of my own breathe

Somewhere in the corner of my mind

Wondering when will the night terror end

The story is out now and my song is strong

No longer will I hide in the corner of my mind

No longer confused and afraid of the midnight air

It stops here

Listen to my story loud and clear

I am free of the misery and constant fear

No longer vulnerable or invisible I am here

I will sing loud and strong for the courts to hear

What you have done to me over the years

It stops here.

The table has turned now

Hide in the shadow and behold your fate

As you will spend the rest of your years

Fearing those who have heard my song 

More about Denise Briales:

Denise has worked in the field of social work for the past 28 years servicing victims of trauma both from secular and sectarian backgrounds.  She herself has been exposed to many traumatic events that have made powerful imprints in my personal and professional life. Denise has long used journaling as a therapeutic tool. Since being exposed to narrative medicine, when she reads back her written words, she attains centering, grounding, awareness, and healing from the experience of vicarious trauma that affects caregivers in mental health professions. 

More about Annie Robinson:

As a patient, and as a caregiver in the role of a doula supporting women through birth, abortion, and miscarriage, I have experienced the power of stories in healing. I recently graduated from the Narrative Medicine master's program at Columbia University, and will begin at Harvard Divinity School next fall to explore the borderlines between ministry and medicine.

I also curate an oral narrative project called “Inside Stories: Medical Student Experience”, for which I interview medical students about their experiences in medical school with the intention to provide a platform for their own person healing, self-realization and empowerment through the sharing and receiving of personal stories. You can listen to their stories on iTunes podcasts or here: http://in-training.org/inside-stories.

Over the coming year, I will be working as an intern for Health Story Collaborative and writing a series of blog posts that profile remarkable individuals committed to honoring and making use of stories in health care. If you or someone you know might be interested in being interviewed, please contact me at healthstorycollaborative@gmail.com.

On March 19, 1991, Larry Brennan broke his neck.

He was 18 years old and suddenly paralyzed. He’s had to use a wheelchair ever since.

At the time of the accident, Larry was a freshman at the University of Massachusetts Amherst; he was in the Bahamas with friends on spring break. The details of the accident are fuzzy, he says, because he was intoxicated at the time, having been on a “booze cruise” all day. He remembers running down the beach, then nothing else. According to his friends, Larry dove into the water. The impact broke his cervical spine.

Initially, when his friends saw him lying face down in the water, they assumed he was snorkeling, and it was several minutes before they realized he was in trouble. He wasn’t breathing when they pulled him out. One of his friends knew CPR, and working with the others, tried to resuscitate him until the ambulance came. Larry coughed up sea water and started to breathe again, but his heart stopped and restarted numerous times before help arrived.

Larry was raised in Wakefield, Massachusetts. In high school, he was a popular, 6-foot-4-inch athlete. He played football and tennis, became an accomplished skier and had many friends. As a freshman at UMass, he was flourishing, and his spring break trip was a highlight.

The accident damaged his spinal cord at the C 5-6 level, basically his lower neck, leaving him a quadriplegic (meaning he has weakness in all four limbs). He can move his shoulders and his upper arms, but not his fingers, and he’s completely paralyzed from the upper chest down, with total weakness in his core trunk muscles and legs. However, Larry’s injury is considered “incomplete” in that his sensory nerve fibers were spared and his sensation is intact. For this, he feels lucky.

Here, Larry talks about coming to terms with his injury and learning to live a productive, happy life — though one he says he wouldn’t wish upon anyone else. He finished college at UMass Boston six years after his injury. Now, he lives alone with his service dog Emmie, and gets help from a home aide. He works full time as a Senior Development Officer at Massachusetts General Hospital; goes on dates, skis and sails, and still hangs out with his high school buddies. As Larry puts it, “the biggest thing for me is that I live a full and active life — similar to how my life would have been had I not been injured. Now, I can’t walk, but this is not so important to me anymore. I care most about my relationships with friends and family, staying active and having fun.”

In meeting Larry, I realized how little I understood about quadriplegia before our interaction. I never really stopped to consider the day-to-day challenges that someone in this situation faces, and the tremendous strength that it takes to overcome these obstacles. Moreover, meeting Larry has made me think about how our fears of the unknown can hinder true and genuine connection in life. When I first met Larry, I was nervous, checking myself, wondering how to be. Should I try to shake his hand or will this make him uncomfortable? Should I offer him food and drink during our meeting or will that be too hard? And so on. Larry has taught me that it is better to just ask, to be direct, and not to let these mundane, functional issues get in the way. Larry has no hang ups about these things, so why should I? We just do some things differently, and that’s all.

Originally published on WBUR Commonhealth Blog, March 9, 2012

Resources:

http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/spinal-cord-injury/DS00460/DSECTION=symptoms

http://www.nytimes.com/health/guides/disease/spinal-cord-trauma/overview.html

http://www.spinalcord.org/resource-center/

Photo Credit: Mark Hunt

Seven years ago, Orna's life was irrevocably changed when she was abducted, tortured, and raped. Though she survived the attack, her wounds are still healing.

In this intimate podcast, Orna describes the mixed medical and psychological care she received, the complexity of tending to both her personal health and the legal process, and how she is learning to navigate the healing process. Orna suggests how healthcare providers can provide more sensitive care, offers solace and inspiration to other survivors, and shines a light on the racism and stereotypes our culture perpetuates about rape. We must collectively commit to dismantling the misnomer that rape only happens to young white women: it also happens to men, people of all races and cultures and ages, LGBTQ individuals, prisoners, and military personnel.

Suggested Resources:

The nation’s largest anti-sexual violence organization provides advocacy, resources, and educational information: RAINN.org

National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1.800.656.HOPE

Article on racism and rape: http://endsexualviolence.org/where-we-stand/racism-and-rape

For survivors: http://endsexualviolence.org/forsurvivors

Online forum for survivors to anonymously share their stories, and read others to see they’re not alone: Brave Miss World Speak Out

By Annie Brewster

Daniel and I went to the same private school I attended for high school. I was older by a few years and don’t remember him well, but he seemed like a happy enough member of our school community. It wasn't until last year, 30 years after graduating, that I learned about the abuse: In middle school, he was molested by an English teacher. Students, faculty and administrators stood by, most of us oblivious but some aware, all silent and all somehow complicit.

Now 45, Daniel shares his story with strength and compassion, speaking out straightforwardly and unapologetically about this trauma and the effects it had on his health. He has not only recovered, but is also helping other individuals who have experienced similar abuse, or are at risk of it.

Trauma associated with the abuse of a student by a teacher is especially insidious, as the perpetrator is often a respected authority figure, someone the student wants to please, typically held in high regard. For Daniel, it was difficult even to label what was going on as abuse. Instead, unconsciously, he internalized shame. Years of depression and anxiety ensued, and an ongoing journey of recovery. Today, Daniel says that the struggles he has faced, though unwanted, have made him stronger, and ultimately healthier, by encouraging depth of perspective, self-knowledge, resilience and empathy.

Recent reporting by the Boston Globe has highlighted the prevalence of sexual misconduct by staff at New England prep schools, with over 100 private schools identified as potentially involved in such incidents over the past 25 years, and more than 300 alleged victims coming forward.

In most cases, like Daniel’s, school administrators did not intervene to stop the abuse when they should have. Allegations were not taken seriously, and abuse survivors are justifiably angry. But Daniel would say that our school responded admirably, with compassion, respect and action, when he approached administrators regarding his abuse a decade ago -- more than 18 years after it occurred. The school, with Daniel’s help, has become a role model in guiding other schools through this process.

Daniel recently brought a civil suit against his abuser, and is satisfied with its settlement. Recent changes in the law extending the statute of limitations on sexual abuse of minors allowed him to bring the suit, and still more such legal changes are likely in the coming months.

Daniel says that recovery, both from depression and trauma, is non-linear and involves slowly naming and making sense of what has happened.With time, he has learned to integrate the complexity of his situation, to appreciate his vulnerability and his strength. He is a survivor of trauma, and so much more. No one part defines him. In this acceptance, he is whole.

Originally posted on the WBUR CommonHealth Blog on December 28th, 2016

In Evelyn Berde’s words, “I have always felt that art has the ability to lift us out of one place and take us to another.”

Evelyn is an artist, a teacher, a healer, and a patient herself. Born with congenital scoliosis in 1950, she spent many years in and out of Massachusetts General Hospital (MGH), confined to her bed for months at a time. Her art is informed by her experience living with a “deformity”, as it was referred to in those times, as well as by her childhood growing up in the old “West End” of Boston, a low-income but culturally rich neighborhood close to MGH and the Charles River which was razed in the late 1950s, displacing many residents, and replaced by residential high rises which still stand today.

Evelyn’s childhood was marked by sadness—alcoholism in her family, the loss of her nine year old brother when she was six, not to mention her own medical condition—but it was also full of beauty, love and color. Her artwork portrays this complexity and texture.

Today, she is a wife, mother to two grown children, an art teacher and therapist as well as an extraordinary storyteller. She weaves her life stories into her art with skill and grace, and she reminds us all that we have the power within us to transform our experiences. “It’s all in you”, she says. “It’s hard to do, and it takes energy, but if you can focus on something that will bring you joy, even in the midst of tremendous sorrow and pain, it can shift everything.” 

You can listen to Evelyn talk about more of her paintings, and view the original publication of this piece on WBUR’s Commonhealth Blog here.