By all appearances, after three weeks of therapies, Matt's rehabilitation and progress seemed to be in a holding pattern—no startling accomplishments or apparent turning point in sight. It wasn't easy to stay positive, not knowing how things would play out. Huge disparities were the landscape of my thoughts. My assessment of Matt’s abilities, projected outcomes, and quality of life flipped like a coin. One side convinced me nothing of any account was better; time was moving at a snail’s pace, and at this rate, it would take forever. The other side inspired surprise simply because Matt was holding his head up and using his left leg, and how quickly the weeks seemed to evaporate.  When internally probing questions challenged my perceptions, “Was his physical, functional, and mental progress slow, insignificant, or better than anticipated?” the sides argued aggressively. Sadly, my perspective waxed and waned in sync with my ability to harness my fear, exhaustion, and the overbearing sense we were in over our heads.

Uncertainty and instability were counterintuitive to my nature and upbringing. I like to define myself as a farmer’s daughter. This statement speaks volumes if you know anything about hard-working farmers, their I-can-do families, and the depth of the supportive community that encompasses and embraces them. My father was raised on a farm, went off to college, and then spent twelve years working as a glass technologist before returning to his roots. He grew crops, ran a dairy farm for over thirty years, bottled and pedaled milk, and harvested wood to sell locally—it suited him well.

In contrast, my mother, born into a modestly affluent home, earned a degree in Ceramic Arts, served in the American Red Cross in France during World War II, and, upon her return, studied to be an occupational therapist. Marrying late in life, she easily shifted gears to living in a hundred-fifty-year-old home on 74 acres of land. With grace, she contentedly immersed herself in this new lifestyle and found purpose and fulfillment. Together, my parents raised an upstanding family, or so I like to think, of six children, four boys and a set of twins—girls, of which I am one. Our births spanned 15 years.

The foundation of our family values included shared meals, mutual respect, and actions motivated by good intentions. Our parents and church instilled in us attitudes of integrity, honor, honesty, and ‘right’ behavior. I sang in the choir and attended youth groups and retreats, and my faith grew and matured as I did. Our extended family gathered for holidays, and others popped in on a whim for happy hour or to sit at the table for a meal. In our patch of upstate New York, the expression that it took a community to raise a family was taken to heart—people knew, praised, and disciplined us equally. Each child had designated household, farm, and work responsibilities—the latter more so the boys; and were expected to fulfill obligations and commitments and were held accountable for them and their actions. My parents disciplined us with quiet words. The knowledge we had disappointed or let them down was all we needed to straighten up.

Everyone pitched in as needed. As Jacks-of-all trades, we never questioned if, but rather how to accomplish a task or problem: automobile and farm equipment maintenance and repairs, autobody touch-ups, electrical work, home and appliance repairs, painting—you name it, we did it and the farm work. I helped harvest farm crops, especially sweet corn, but less so with planting crops—large farm equipment did that. My dad took pride in selling the best corn, earning loyal customers from far and wide who visited his vegetable stand. Our family ate sweet corn every night that it was available, summer and fall, along with zucchini and yellow squash, peppers, tomatoes, musk melons, and more. The girls of the family canned dill, garlic, and sweet pickles; tomatoes and peaches; and froze applesauce, green and wax beans, corn, and apple pies. My dad parceled off a rectangle of land for me, fifty by twenty feet, to grow flowers—whatever my heart desired: zinnias, marigolds, snapdragons, and never-tried-before seeds. I loved making floral arrangements to dress the dining room table.

It was not all work and no play. In our spare time, we had free range of the land and wooded area beyond the fields to explore and play. Although there weren’t many families nearby, to our great fortune, the nearest house had children of our age that paired nicely with the four of us younger siblings. Sometimes, boys and girls went their own way, but just as often, we played together. Our best collaboration was building a tree fort, no small feat since we had to carry supplies, especially wood planks salvaged from an old barn, a half mile into the backwoods. It was a great adventure and a wonderful place to hang out. There was a small tree sapling next to the tree fort that we climbed onto, and as it bent under our weight, we rode it down to the ground. That was fine and good until the day it snapped back into my face and broke my glasses—a fact I didn’t relish telling my parents.

We rode bikes and played traditional outdoor games such as softball, hide and seek, and our favorite summertime game—kick the can. Indoors, we enjoyed epic games of Monopoly and Risk, wrestled together, and watched our favorite TV shows. My sister and I dressed our Barbie dolls, crocheted, knitted, and often sewed. With our mother’s help, we made most of our clothes. It was fun exploring the rows of fabric at the store for each new project. We baked for our family, experimenting with different cakes, cookies, and pie recipes. With Mom’s help, we frequently made eight apple pies or double batches of cookies for church and school bake sales.

In school, I was a nerd, timid around the in-crowd, fearing I might embarrass myself or, worse, my sister, who leaned away from academics toward artistic, theatrical, and social endeavors. I liked math and science, and just like Matt, I could compress three years of each into two years and then take advanced subjects. For reasons I can’t fully explain, beginning in ninth grade, I wanted to become a physical therapist. I had little knowledge of what that profession entailed other than it was in the health field and required skills in science and math. I earned a BS in Physical Therapy from the University at Buffalo and a Master of Arts in Exercise Physiology from Kent State University.

Out on my own, and later when married, I seamlessly applied the life philosophies, skills, and faith I learned growing up. If something was broken, I fixed it. I rewired an antique standing lamp, installed a garage door opener, and routinely took charge of household and appliance repairs. I learned to install sheetrock and ceramic floor tiles, do simple plumbing, insulate the attic crawl space, and chimney sweep. I keep a small vegetable garden and a lovely, large flower garden that the deer enjoy as much as my neighbors—much to my chagrin.

Mike and I were active in our children's lives growing up. I coached soccer for young children, was a Girl Scout leader for five years, and was and still am involved in church leadership: children’s choir, youth group, teacher, and board member. As the kids flew the coup, we listened, encouraged, and supported their efforts. We visited homecoming and sports events and praised each of them as they graduated with BS and Ph.D. degrees in an engineering field and, in time, some married. We are immeasurably proud of them. I was conscious of what a picture-perfect life our family led, but not naïve enough to think it would always be so. Our world came crashing down after Matt's catastrophic traumatic brain injury, turning our lives upside down. It left me floundering for a foothold. I desperately needed a game plan and strategies to survive.

To get grounded, I disciplined myself to blur the daunting big picture in the background and intentionally grasped each nugget of hope, accomplishment, or milestone.  As I strove to hold the tide of pessimism and an avalanche of emotions at bay, each success encouraged me to keep going because the alternative was awful. It took determination and faith to believe that the inconceivable was obtainable—and frequent reminders to hold fast to optimism. In doing so, my viewpoint expanded and enabled me to acknowledge simple things change and evolve—like a dead seed breaking ground and sprouting; likewise, these differences suggested that new growth was a harvest season away. My mantra became, “Celebrate the small stuff.” Everything was noted in a journal, quickly reminding me there were things to celebrate.