The Snowstorm and the System.
Part Five: Eight Points or Bust.
Headlamps on. Nightfall. Endless forward motion. 40 mph. A single track road. Translucent, mesmerising snow firing from the sky in confetti bullets. At your windscreen it rushes. Not in a quick flurry. These are intense fluorescent arrows, relentless in their pursuit, locking in, firing at your eyes. Causing a swirl of synaesthesia. As if someone is using a giant fan to direct the flakes straight at your face. It tricks your brain. You want to dodge, to duck your head.
If you’ve driven in these conditions, maybe you can recall the intense feeling of keeping your eyes on a single fixed point? Of moving forwards whilst feeling disorientated? Of relief when the snow relents, or you reach your destination?
What I’m really talking about is not snow, but information.
Words. Sounds. Sights. The bass boom rattling the speakers of that passing car. The clack of cups in a restaurant. The background chatter. Those kids as they play in the street. What it takes to interpret the information we receive, in the world we inhabit, normally happens instantaneously. Even if it’s firing rapidly at the windshield of our brains, like that snow.
Take a second here to consider what your brain is currently interpreting for you. Listen if you will. What do you understand, without realising, of what you are hearing right at this moment? For example, what’s happening in your neighbourhood? How do you interpret the sounds? A neighbour’s car reversing into the driveway? The footsteps of that jogger on the pavement as he passes your back garden? The swish of wind lilting through those tree branches?
Endless recognition of sounds. Endless processing of information. Endlessly regulated by your own grey matter.
Recognise that your brain is serving you right now. Pause and enjoy that. Take it in.
Perhaps you could stop for a moment and be thankful that this is so.
The snowstorm was at its most intense in those post-haemorrhage days. Unregulated, it felt like there was no barrier to stop the information breaking through.
Instead of snow firing straight into a cold face, unprepared for such an onslaught, read: information firing straight into a brain recovering from trauma.
The result?
Lockdown.
Sleep, sleep and sleep again.
Until eventually, a system emerges.
I used to enjoy devising games when I was young. In May 2024, I found I could still do it.
And so, I found myself playing the game of “8 points or Bust”. Eight points was equal to *roughly* the amount of energy I could handle in a day. Through trial and error, I devised a system which would assign points to simple activities and try to ensure that each day did not exceed the eight point total. The prize for winning? No painful headache to medicate against or disappear from in sleep.
At that time, I recall the holy grail being to find something that did not cost a point. Anything that did not deplete my internal supercomputer was gold dust. The list was small though: taking a shower, short trips to the garden, feeding our rabbits. Nul points.
From a hand-written note entitled “Rough Guide to Neurofatigue June 2024” I found a sample of what I could do back then. These, the equivalent of a day’s activity.
A short set of physio exercises: 1 point
A visit by a friend: 3 points
Watch TV for 10 minutes: 1 point
Water houseplants: 1 point
Art for 30 minutes: 1 point
Read for 10 minutes: 1 point
An unscheduled or untested activity could prove problematic. I remember spending half a day’s energy (4 points!) on an optician’s appointment around that time. The amount of information fired at me, through questioning, decision making, lighting, sound and general conversation soon became that unregulated snowstorm. Even although the optician had a family member who had experienced something similar to me, her empathetic conversation soon became exhausting. A two hour sleep would be the price of that half hour.
I noted at that time that any “unscheduled activity has a hidden impact. If I feel ok, I might try something I hadn’t planned, then suddenly crash.” As a teacher, the scheduling of daily activity was not something new. But, becoming the primary focus of that scheduled activity and the tiny nature of what I was capable of carrying out was indeed an eye-opening learning curve. I would not have believed the all-consuming nature of battling the sensory overload of even a simple day in the house prior to brain haemorrhage.
Every season is a gift. Even those that require rewiring, relearning, readjusting. What appears to be a norm of our lives can be taken in a second. Though the realisation of this may seem harsh and we may long for the status quo to remain forever, I believe that what follows upheaval and change is sometimes, in disguise, a great gift from the Giver of Life.
I finish with the quote that inspired me to write this week’s post: “a person must pass the lessons learned on to others—or there has been no real gift at all.” Richard Rohr, Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life
Wherever you are reading this, have a great day my friend. Until next time.
@neildavidmitchellwriting
(Windshield image courtesy of https://www.vecteezy.com/free-photos/outdoors)
This is powerful writing, full of wisdom and gratitude. I enjoyed the audio as well: so lovely to hear the sound of your voice. Thank you. Power to you, David.