Signal in the Wreckage: A Traumatic Brain Injury Recovery Story (Revised) - Peter Morande
- Peter Morande
- Jul 7
- 3 min read
Signal in the Wreckage
I remember falling, but I don’t remember hitting the ground.
There was a blur of yelling. I heard someone say I stood back up, eyes bloodshot, confused, refusing to lay down. I don’t remember doing that either.
The next clear thing I remember is lying on a stretcher, lights too bright, and someone snapping at me to keep the neck brace on.
That was the first time I came apart. But it wouldn’t be the last.
Fragment One: The Moment That Slipped
They said it happened fast. One second I was upright, the next I collapsed. My body went rigid, like it was bracing for something I couldn’t see coming. I was told there was a seizure. I don’t remember that either.
Friends were there. A school officer named Mark tried to help. I only know that because someone told me afterward. I wasn’t there in the way I usually am. My brain pulled the plug before I could hit save.
It wasn’t until much later that I realized how deep it all went.
Fragment Two: The Silence After
After the ER, after the stretcher, after I tore off the neck brace like an idiot, things got quiet.
Not peaceful. Quiet.
The kind of quiet where everyone stops asking if you’re okay because you look like you are. You’re up. You’re moving. You’re at school. Maybe a little slower, maybe forgetting things, maybe with new migraines that don’t stop, but you’re upright. That’s enough, right?
I never got a full follow-up. Never got told what I should be watching for. Never had anyone connect the dots between my trauma and the way I stopped being able to hold thoughts the way I used to.
Fragment Three: Learning to Function with a Fractured Signal
You figure it out. Or at least pretend to.
You start building habits to make up for what doesn’t come back. Sticky notes. Phone reminders. Talking out loud so you can track your own thoughts. You push through the fatigue. You apologize for being slow, even when no one blames you. You try not to talk about it too much. People get uncomfortable when healing isn’t linear.
No one teaches you how to live after a brain injury that no one really helped you recover from.
You teach yourself. Piece by stubborn piece.
I never got a full follow-up. Never got told what I should be watching for. Never had anyone connect the dots between my trauma and the way I stopped being able to hold thoughts the way I used to.
Why This Story Isn’t Just Mine:
What happened to me isn’t rare. In 2020, there were around 214,000 traumatic brain injury- related hospitalizations, and in 2021, over 69,000 people died from TBI-related causes in the United States. That comes out to nearly 586 hospitalizations and 190 deaths every day. And those numbers don’t include the countless people, like me, who were treated and discharged with no real guidance. I didn’t get a follow-up. I didn’t get answers. Just a quiet expectation to keep up and move forward. That silence isn’t just personal. It reflects a larger problem in how invisible injuries are handled in our healthcare system and culture. Source: (https://www.cdc.gov/traumatic-brain-injury/data-research/index.html)
I didn’t get a follow-up. I didn’t get answers. A quiet expectation to keep up and move forward.
The silence I experienced isn’t just personal; it’s part of a bigger problem in how our culture handles invisible injuries.
“People with invisible disabilities are often thought to be making fraudulent claims to a disabled identity and are seen as less legitimate candidates for disability accommodations.” - Disability Studies Quarterly Source: (https://dsq-sds.org/index.php/dsq/article/ view/3424/3204)
Final Reflection: A Voice Through Static:
Years later, it still echoes.
Not always loudly. But in small ways. A lost sentence mid-thought. A flare of pain that shuts everything down. The guilt. The self-doubt. The constant wondering if I’m doing enough with what’s left.
But here’s the thing. I kept going. I kept building something, even if it felt like I was stacking driftwood on shifting sand. This blog, this story, is part of that.
A signal, broken but still broadcasting.
You never know how loud a quiet injury can become until it echoes through everything you try to build.
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