Last week, I blogged about the mishaps with my daughter Nikki as she fought the confinements of a hospital bed and being tied down (for her own good). Given her new nickname (Little Houdini) it was with trepidation that we admitted her to an inpatient recovery program in mid-town Sacramento. How would the staff guarantee her safety where she’d have mobility, when she so successfully bucked the system while still in a coma?
The facility catered to stroke patients, which came with the same needs and challenges as someone with traumatic brain injury. The staff was friendly and inviting—I would be allowed to come and go as I pleased, as well as attend her therapy sessions. However, there were numerous doors, and the fear of escape was paramount in our minds.
“Her wheelchair has a monitor attached.” The nurse showed us where there was a small box attached with a heavy plastic strap under the seat of Nikki’s wheelchair. “If she were to go through the doors, an alarm would sound alerting the staff immediately.”
I wasn’t convinced, but there wasn’t much I could do. Although Nikki hadn’t suffered any damage to her body (other than her head) she was unable to walk or talk. She had to wear a diaper until she could remember how to use the bathroom, and her eyes looked like something out of a Picasso painting as they’d shifted in her head. I couldn’t imagine her outwitting a staff experienced in patient care and protection.
When Nikki wanted to get around on her own, she used the heels of her feet to shuffle the chair around—not the most graceful mode of transportation, but it worked. Not long into her stay, a staff member found her sitting in her room, staring out the window. The winter weather had perked up and it was sunny outside, with daffodils just beginning to sprout up in the garden behind the hospital. I can only imagine what she was thinking, as she doesn’t remember weeks of her life before and after the accident.
The next morning, I arrived early to find Nikki’s occupational and speech therapists apologetic and flustered. Nikki, still barely functioning, had escaped from the hospital. There was no alarm to alert the staff, just the empty hospital room. Next to the window, her occupational therapist found the monitor lying on the floor, the strap ripped. She rushed through the hospital, alerting other staff members, and went out the back door. She found Nikki heel-walking herself straight to H Street, one of the busiest of downtown Sacramento streets. This is where I generally parked, and I always had to wait an inordinate amount of time because traffic didn’t bother to stop, even at the crosswalk.
How was it that my daughter, who couldn’t form words or identify everyday objects, had the wherewithal to identify the monitor for what it was and find a way to remove it from her wheelchair? She must have known that the monitor would alert the staff, or else why remove it? How did she know the maze of hallways, and which one would lead her outside—not through the front door, where she’d be caught, but the back door? Even now, sixteen years later, it amazes me when I think about it.
Needless to say, extra precautions were taken with Nikki after her escape. She had two monitors attached to her chair and one to her body. Staff members were to know where she was at all times. They weren’t taking anymore chances.
This is one of the scenes I used in Illusions because it paints a beautiful picture of how the brain works beyond what we can imagine. Had I not walked through this experience with Nikki, I could not have written about traumatic brain injury with any authority. Nikki’s antics seem implausible and many readers might question their reliability. Much of my research was true life experience—I didn’t have to read scientific journals or interview a multitude of people diagnosed with it. I lived it. And I wanted to write it, not from the expert testimony of doctors and therapists, but from the testimony of a mother who wondered if her daughter would ever be “normal” again.
Nicole is not normal. She is extraordinary. And I wanted a little of her tenacity and intelligence to live on in the character of Taylor Schaffer.
