Dain Bramage

It's a joke, how my friends and I refer to my head injuries as "dain bramage."

Or how my sis and I say "funny business" for when my brain does things it shouldn't. Sometimes I'm wondering in the pages of a Dr. Seuss book, lost among the silly words that sound right but make no sense, sure that I am communicating something but not sure what, exactly.

And we laugh, and it is funny, especially since here I am, alive, thinking, writing.

Those brain-shaken-not-stirred accidents over too many years in competitive sports had their impact, but in a transient sort of way.

Sure, there was a time I couldn't find my way between my apartment and my job -- even though they were two blocks apart, and I'd walked the same route many times a day over many years. And there were those bad, bad days dealing with migraines, nausea, confusion. At its worst, I'd crawl from couch to toilet, unable to stand in a spinning world (vertigo, not vodka).

Okay, I take it back. My brain was shaken AND stirred.

Overall, fingers-crossed, I came out okay especially if I use tools to accomplish tasks that used to happen seamlessly and unconsciously.

I can tell a story, even one I just witnessed, but I need to write down the details if I'm going to get it right. I can multi-task like the best of my old, over-achieving self, as long as I've gotten enough sleep and have eaten in the last few hours.

I'll remember your face, even if we meet only briefly or I see you on the subway one time, as long as there is something visually interesting about you (or I take your photo). The visual memory is, praise the Photographer God, still pretty strong.

In case you hadn't noticed, head trauma is all the rage -- it's being talked about in every forum. Among buddies pounding beer in front of the NFL playoffs; on public radio's review of the most popular interviews in 2008; in magazines and books by doctors who have faced traumatic brain injuries firsthand.

As usual, and as in my own story, it's the American love of sport that continues to bring TBI to the forefront of our minds.

In case you missed it, Ben Roethlisberger, the quarterback for the Pittsburgh Steelers, sustained his third concussion in as many years two weeks ago tonight. After almost fifteen minutes he was carried off in a stretcher. Perhaps the artifical turf of Heniz Field softened the blow of his head being jammed into the ground because his concussion was deemed "mild" by the Steelers' concussion-management-team. It's great that football has the most advanced brain buckets of any sport, and a brain-damage-specific team of doctors as well. But it begs the question: why do we pour billions of dollars into a sport that necessitates such trauma management to protect our most critical organ?

Go ahead and beg (I can hear you), but that's not a question I plan to entertain, any more than the question of why I keep climbing back on my bike or skis, or why I drive in cars and fly in planes. It's all about calculating risk and deciding on an individual basis just how much risk we're willing to live with to entertain our interests or meet our needs.

And, yes, playing sports is necessary for me.

While spinning on a stationary bike to the blasting tune of Pearl Jam, AC/DC or Creed may be safer than riding on the road (concussions, cracked jaw, broken wrist, fractured collarbone) or trail (dislocated shoulder), one could argue it's not good for my hearing at the levels I need to play that music to be as pumped as I am after riding outdoors without music.

Running on a treadmill helps my speed and pacing, but I'm wasting electricity (how many watts does it take to power one of those beasts, anyway?). And don't make me compare the benefits of using a Precor machine versus gliding through trails of snow or climbing over and sliding down peaks in Tahoe. There simply is no comparison.

While I project a go-for-broke attitude toward the sports I love, there is the tiny voice that I sometimes admit to hearing -- but never to psychiatrists, who perk-up when they hear you hear voices of any kind, even the guardian angel type -- that suggests maybe I shouldn't go for that ride/run down the mountain. Or when the feeling in my gut says just maybe today you can scale back, go slow, cut it short.

Ultimately, though, "giving in" is just not true to me, and in the end, I only have myself to blame or applaud. At least I still recognize myself when I look in the mirror. Except on the worst days.