How I Survived a Concussion Last Winter

During a trip to Sweden’s west coast, I fell on ice hidden in grass. It was a Friday. Staggering to my feet, I clasped my head and made it into the rental house that I shared with my Swedish husband.

“You’ll be fine,” Sven said confidently. 

He got that very wrong. In no way was I “fine.”

Early Monday morning, we drove to the local medical center where a nurse took my vitals. A doctor appeared and listened briefly to my tale of woe. I could tell from her expression that she had no appetite for treating foreigners. “You have a hematoma. Take paracetamol,” she said. “Come back if there are additional symptoms.”

I imagine she didn’t send me to the hospital for a CT scan because the regional hospital was located two hours away from Stromstad, and since I’m not Swedish, subsidized travel by ambulance was not an option. 

As a woman accustomed to being pampered by medical staff in the United States, the lack of a clear diagnosis and treatment shocked me. The pain continued and, by Wednesday, I had developed vertigo and nausea. With distress, I realized I would not even be capable of driving into town for groceries. I had become sensitive to sound, to smell. Travel over roads with potholes proved torture. 

That evening, feeling desperate and close to tears, I texted a friend who drove me to a medical center in the next town, open at night. This time, my doctor was a Danish woman with gray hair and a comforting bedside manner. 

“You had a mild concussion,” she said. “What did you do today?” 

“I worked on my novel. I’m a writer.”

She sent me a fierce look and reached out to palpate the back of my head. 

“No screens,” she admonished as if I should have already absorbed this crucial bit of information at Friday’s medical visit. “Complete bedrest.”

We all know American football players suffer concussions from time to time. The men usually recover but repetitive concussions can bring on a degenerative disease called chronic traumatic encephalopathy. I was not worried about degenerative disease at 77. I simply wanted to feel better. I retreated to my bed and stayed in a fetal position for days.

Fortunately, a former college roommate, a resident of Dublin, Ireland, shared details of her own concussive experience. She had tripped while walking her dog. I felt like I wanted to die, she texted. Didn’t the doctor there tell you what to do for vertigo and nausea? Wait, I’ll send the guidelines. She also advised listening to soft classical music like Mozart. Turns out the exercises are simple:

1. Sit up with your head to the right.
2. Lay down on your left side, wait for the spinning to stop plus one minute.
3. In one movement, sit up then down on your right shoulder, keeping your head turned to the right. Wait 1 minute.
4. Sit back up.
5. Repeat up to 4 times in a row, once a day.

The vertigo and nausea dissipated but the pain remained. Three pills of paracetamol (Tylenol Extra Strength) a day kept me sane. Sleep also helped. My appointment for a zoom review of an essay? Canceled. My message with a massage therapist? Postponed. My winter plans to finish Part 1 of my novel? Delayed.

 Two weeks passed, but my pain didn’t let up. The hardest part was being unable to use my laptop. The computer has become such an indispensable part of life, especially in Sweden, where all banking transpires online. When the Danish doctor said no screens, she knew what she was talking about. If I cheated and spent more than 10 minutes on email, my head throbbed. Back to bed I’d crawl. I discovered the concussion depleted the creative energy my brain could muster at any one time. Words eluded me, a heartbreaking situation for a writer. Fortunately reading was different. I could read to my heart’s content. Writing longhand is also considered an okay activity in recovery since it doesn’t involve the noxious blue light of computer screens.  

The following week, a friend in Oslo emailed that the only thing that had helped her recover from concussion was craniosacral treatment. “There’s a certified practitioner in Tanum, the next town over,” she wrote. “I looked online for you. Check it out.”

I immediately made an appointment. Laugh at me it you want but the therapist’s first name immediately felt reassuring. Mona-Lisa emailed directions and said to watch for a yellow house. As my husband turned our Saab off the old E6 highway onto a very rural road, I wondered how anyone could receive patients in the middle of nowhere. We passed freshly plowed fields, a few farmhouses, tree trunks piled in neat stacks awaiting shipment to a sawmill, two forests of tall conifers, which made me sympathize with Hansel and Gretel unable to find their way through deep dark woods. Fifteen minutes later, at last we spotted a yellow house. 

Mona-Lisa knew what she was about and took excellent care of me. It turned out that she had taken courses with Michael Kern, a well-known biodynamic craniosacral therapist from London and the author of the book Wisdom in the Body. I lay motionless on her massage table while she lay hands on my head, neck, and under my belly. After the one-hour session, she explained in broken English that she had “bathed my bruised fascia with fluid from my spine.” The treatment produced a deep relaxation. I returned four times. The first two sessions were the most beneficial, but at least I felt almost normal afterwards. 

The pain left following a special treatment with my wonderful acupuncturist.

Eight months after my fall, I’m happy to report the concussion is relegated to a back of my mind. I feel grateful to my friend for having recommended a gifted craniosacral practitioner. The experience has made me decide to live close to a hospital if I move to Sweden.