A Painful Memory of Rehab

Originally written in 2015 — Revisited in 2025

A few days after I emerged from a coma, I was transferred by ambulance to a rehabilitation center. One of my first tasks was relearning daily care routines with an Occupational Therapist (O.T.). She told me I’d be taking my first shower. I remember wondering how that would even work. I could barely recall what a shower felt like, and the rehab shower room was unfamiliar territory.

She walked me through the steps: where to place my clothes, how to enter the shower, how the soap dispenser worked, and how to exit safely. She explained that she’d remain in the room to assist me if I lost my balance or needed help. It was protocol. It was practical. But for me, it was deeply distressing.

To shower, I would need to undress in her presence.

Now, I was raised in the 1950s and ’60s—a good Catholic girl taught that modesty was sacred. Undressing in front of anyone, even another woman, was not something I had ever done. That part of me—the part that valued privacy and dignity—had not been lost in the accident. I could feel her still inside me, quietly protesting.

But the accident had taken my language. My ability to assert myself, to express discomfort, to ask for alternatives—it was all gone. I couldn’t say, “I need privacy.” I couldn’t ask, “Can I shower alone?” I couldn’t even remember the history that shaped my boundaries. So I did what I was told. I complied. And I suffered in silence.

To this day, that memory feels violating.

The guiding principle for medical professionals is “First, do no harm.” But in rehab—especially for those recovering from traumatic brain injury (TBI)—that principle can be unintentionally broken. Medical staff often focus on physical recovery, overlooking the emotional and psychological terrain a patient carries. Old traumas can be triggered in the process of healing new ones.

What if someone had asked about my trauma history? What if a relative or friend had been consulted? What if my need for modesty had been honored?

In rehab, we are often defined by a single facet: the injury. Our backstories are left out of the picture. And yet, those stories matter. They shape how we heal. They shape what safety looks like. They shape what dignity feels like.

Knowing a patient’s history isn’t just compassionate—it’s essential. It can prevent re-traumatization. It can foster trust. It can make healing possible.

I share this memory not to blame, but to advocate. For trauma-informed care. For listening. For remembering that every patient is more than their diagnosis.

#TraumaInformedCare #HealingTheWholePerson #PatientVoicesMatter #TBIRecoveryJourney