Sophia R. Nelson, Sophomore, English Major from Auburn, WA
I can’t help but imagine he still smelled of salty air. His hair was still slightly coated with the distinct texture of the sea. His gray eyes shined brightly not because of his adventure, but of his return home to us. He smiled and laughed with his buddies dressed in warm puffer coats in varying shades of neutrals. His blue jeans were worn from the trip and his socks kept his feet slightly too hot. I can’t help envisioning him as his former self. The last moments of happiness, normalcy, for someone’s life would soon change when the plane lands in Washington, back home from the Alaskan fishing trip.
None of us were there, none of us saw it, all we know is what we’ve heard, from the once crazy tale to one that wedged a nail in our home. He recalls from time to time the events of the plane, usually when he meets new people. Most of the time I’m uninterested with his story due to the pain it reminds me of, the way it hurt me too. His story begins with the soft blue hues of the cabin lights fading into the bright white telling passengers the plane arrived at the gate. I can hear the ding, allowing everyone to unbuckle and prepare to exit. I can see him eyeing the elderly lady to his left of the aisle row. I can see his two friends, his business partners, grab their overhead bags a few rows in front and exit the plane. The two are oblivious to the scene that’s about to ensue. After a few more rows of people, he watches the old lady stand. She raises her once strong arms up to the overhead bin and tries to reach for her bag. It’s too heavy for her so he rises from across the aisle.
“I’ve got it,” I can picture him saying, reaching up to grab it for her.
Then, it’s chaos. Have you ever seen someone frantic? So stressed, so upset, that they lose all rational thought? I can almost see the crazed man running down the aisle, a heavy carry-on in tow. Pushing and shoving people out of the way. Yelling he’s going to be late. Freaking out that he will miss his next flight. I can hear his wife telling him to calm down from behind. Chasing after him, yelling to stop running.
Through all of this, the man helping the old lady doesn’t know what’s happening until it’s upon him. He was violently shoved. Suitcase dropping out of his hands, pushed so hard, so forcefully, that his head isn’t fast enough to follow the rest of his body. It whiplashes back then forth, slamming onto the armrest where the old lady once sat.
No human body is made for that kind of force. No human on board knew how to react. It’s one of those moments where someone must step up to stop the madness to save someone yet, no one did this time. There was no hero.
While it wasn’t a big deal being pushed at first, it soon became life-altering. With no one to speak out, no airline to aid the incident, and no stressed man to own his mistake, getting help with medical bills was impossible. The only one to say a word about the incident was the frantic man’s wife, turning to apologize profusely and chase after her husband.
When my dad stepped off the plane, he was never the same again, our family was never the same, all due to a concussion. Not from a sport or a car accident but a man with no name, who was so focused on himself that he didn’t bother to think about others.
Before this, I remember thinking about concussions only in football. Only from severe contact sports, by a soccer ball smacking into your head at the wrong angle, a tackle that hits just the right spot, or a hard fall on the basketball court. I didn’t stop and think about getting a concussion in my everyday life. Walking down the street I could slip on ice and hit my head. I could dive into a pool headfirst, only to hit the bottom. I could also be shoved on a plane, hit with a suitcase, and slam my head on an armrest. I guess no one ever thinks of it until it happens to your friend. Your family. Your dad.
The first thing I remember was the silence. It gracefully shadowed over our home and leaked into the loudest places those first few months. The dining room became a ghost, the kitchen clashed too much, and the living room was held to minimum conversations. It was like walking on eggshells. It got to a point that even the swish of the shower curtain made me internally cringe at the stark noise.
Then, there was the darkness. The curtains used to be wide open allowing the natural light to float into the room. At night, the TV brightened up the couch, candles followed our paths, and decorative lights spruced up dark corners. Afterwards, the sun was blocked almost permanently leaving a gray sheen over every surface. Only one candle was lit, and the TV was rarely turned on. The darkness tethered in all the pain from his head and spewed it into our home.
The two combined made me feel like a shadow living amongst the ghosts of who we used to be. When I was home, I locked myself in my room to soak in color and sound since it felt banned everywhere else. I knew why, I knew that it made him sick when the TV volume was turned too high, or the lights were too bright. You could watch the pain it caused him spread across his face as my mom dropped a pan in the kitchen. It physically hurt his head to hear a crash. His face would scrunch up tight, he’d jump out of his worn leather chair, race to the bathroom, and the retching would begin. He had no control, so it was best if we controlled ourselves.
That meant no friends over, no music, quiet footsteps, and even speaking was risky those first few months because that’s when we realized that it changed him emotionally. Six months in, I spoke out on having to be deathly quiet. How I could never bring friends over. How our home slowly started feeling like a coffin. All I got in response was “he’s sick.” My mom still apologized but it never felt like enough. It felt wrong that my life had to change because he didn’t have a choice in the matter.
With his concussion, I like to think of it as my fingers gently pulling the peg on a watch and twisting the hands backward in time. It was a reverse from a 35-year-old man to what felt like a 25-year-old, maybe even younger. If I said the wrong thing at the wrong time, he’d explode with rage. If I said nothing at all, he might cry. My dad couldn’t handle his emotions anymore, so it felt like I didn’t even have a dad. That meant he would say something disrespectful to me and I’d become angry. He’d mention something to upset me, and I’d cry. With our relationship, it was a constant give and take of hurting each other with never finding the right balance. He was my dad, so it felt like he had all the power to hurt me but I’m his daughter, so I had just enough to hurt him as well.
My relationship was rocky with him, and I watched as all his other ones joined in the waves that crashed and broke. Some would adapt to the new harsh waves, others crumpled under the force. It often became too much pressure to be yourself in case he spilled over. Soon every family member realized they had to change around him to comply with his new uncontrolled emotions. The ones who didn’t, I haven’t seen in years, haven’t spoken to them, I rarely even hear of them.
That’s one part of concussions I never hear anyone talking about. The NFL likes to bury it under the success of their players. Women’s soccer hides it under new headbands to protect your head. Other sports don’t bring attention to the possibility of concussions. They not only damage your physical health but your mental one too. It sets you back 10-20 years of human maturity and emotional growth.
The scariest part is the suffering it brings to every family member. My mom must be a constant support for him, when she isn’t, times at home become ten times more difficult. For my siblings and me, we balance our words, weigh his actions, and feel the emotions in the room just in case it’s not safe for us to be there without being yelled at. My grandparents have watched him struggle with his job and see him suffer in and out of hospitals. After his concussion, none of us have been the same. We’ve all become so attuned to what he may be feeling, how he may react, what he’s thinking, that it’s hard to break the tunnel vision and come back to our normal lives. Lives where we don’t have to weigh and assess every word someone says.
I used to hope that time would allow him to become the father I used to know. The one that could stay level-headed. The one that didn’t turn every conversation into an argument. After seven years with few medications, no procedures, and hardly any doctors who can aid him in healing, my hope has slowly dwindled. What we hope for now is that time will allow him some measure of peace in mind so that we can all move on with our lives.