Living With Traumatic Brain Injury: From a Survivor’s Perspective

Jennifer Field

I was 17 years old. From the age of six, I had been a competitive rider on the equestrian show circuit and was now at the Grand Prix level of show jumping. I was champion in the Junior Jumpers at the Washington International Horse Show in Landover, Maryland and fresh off a third place win at the Maclay Equitation Finals at the Madison Square Garden horse show. My plan was to graduate early from high school and compete in Europe with an eye to the Olympics.

But on a snowy Friday in November, I wasn’t thinking about any of that. The year had ended in the competitive show world, I was back in school, and I could finally take time for myself. My mother was leaving for the weekend and my boyfriend Matt was coming up from Connecticut College; we had schemed this secret rendezvous since our last time together at the Garden.

I skipped my last class to go home, change clothes, and make it back to school to meet Matt. I couldn’t be late. Queen’s Under Pressure blasted through my Black Saab 900 as I sped 55 mph down a winding country road. A severe, early-winter storm was predicted and it was just beginning to snow. I had lived in New Hampshire long enough to know that these conditions were the deadliest—but I was not deterred. I could only think of Matt.

Without warning, I hit black ice, skidded uncontrollably into the other lane, and collided with a tractor–trailer barreling toward me. The bumper of the truck, towering above me, smashed the passenger-side rear window. The impact was so severe, my seat collapsed and my head ricocheted back through the driver side rear window. Glass was embedded in my skull. My neck was twisted, the airway was blocked, and I had stopped breathing.

I’m not sure how long I lay there, unconscious, unable to breathe, but I was later told that a volunteer firefighter was in the area and arrived on the scene after hearing about the accident on his CB radio. He knew from the position of my head that I wasn’t breathing, and although a fire crew was trying frantically to get me out of the car, the volunteer firefighter found the strength to open the door and reposition my head so that I could breathe again. The ambulance took me to the local community hospital, where the emergency team quickly assessed the severity of my injury and made arrangements for me to be transported to a regional hospital.

Life as I had known it was over. From then on, I would become consumed with the search for a complete healing. At first, I wanted the old me, to regain my old life. Now, 18 years later, I realize on that day I was reborn.

I picked up the phone and a voice said, “This is the Monadnock Community Hospital calling. Your daughter has been in an accident.” So I asked how Jennifer was and the woman on the phone said, “I should really get the doctor,” and I just went nuts. I just screamed and screamed and I guess the doctor came on and I asked “Is she alive?” and he said, “Yes.” And then I don’t think I could talk anymore.

—Joanne Field, Jennifer’s mom

The doctors at the regional hospital had little hope for my survival. Tubes were coming out of my body, wires were attached to monitors, and I had a pressure gauge in my head. A renowned neurosurgeon from Chicago had been flown to New Hampshire to see if there was something more that could be done. After reading my CT scan, he concluded that I could not be moved, that I would survive, but I might never speak again.

I lay in a coma for 3 weeks; I was on a respirator, my left arm and leg pumped continuously, of their own volition, and because of severe tone, my right arm curled inward and remained frozen for months. My vitals had begun to stabilize and the pressure gauge measuring swelling had been removed from my head.

Coma patients are evaluated on the Rancho Los Amigos scale, indicating the severity of the condition and the likelihood that the patient would respond to, and benefit from, treatment. Using this one-to-ten scale, I was ranked a “three.” Given that a “one” indicates a vegetative state, I wasn’t doing very well.

I was being fed through a tube, and was nonresponsive, so doctors suggested to my mom that she decorate my room with personal effects to stimulate a response. My mom brought photos, a saddle, some of my horse’s mane, and even some manure. None of it created the response everyone was hoping for. I have no memory from this time in the coma, and even the early months after, so my mother has filled in the blanks for me.

One morning, nurses were washing her face and I saw Jennifer’s left eye open. Stunned, I told the nurse her eye had opened, but the nurse said “Oh, Joanne, I know how badly you want this to happen …” and just at that moment, “bing!” her eye opened again. I went tearing down the hallway of the hospital and told everyone in the waiting room—and this hoard of family and friends came thundering down the ICU, which was completely against the rules. Of course, both eyes were closed by the time we arrived in her room and remained closed for three days. And then, Jen opened her left eye and this time, it remained opened.

—Joanne Field

Some say you emerge from a coma in stages, like a butterfly coming out of a cocoon. Truly, it’s not that beautiful, but maybe just as miraculous. My first memory of waking up from my coma was being on the floor of a blue padded room, looking up at my best friend Kristin and an unfamiliar male face. It was Matt; someone had to tell me he was my boyfriend. To this day, I think it is the first memory I have of being conscious after the accident. I was put in the padded room as a safety precaution.

I was put in that padded room as a safety precaution because as you come out of a coma you can get really violent and either hurt yourself, or someone else. It can be difficult for family members to watch a loved one coming out of a coma, and I’m sure that it’s difficult, too, for families to muster patience in the face of just how slow recovery can be: weeks, months, even, as in my case, years.

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