Most of the different types of cells in our body die and are replaced every few weeks or months. However, neurons, the primary cell of the nervous system, do not multiply (for the most part) after we are born. That means that the majority of the neurons in your brain today are as old as you are. This longevity of the neurons partially accounts for why we feel pretty much the same on the inside at the age of 10 as we do at age 30 or 77. The cells in our brain are the same but over time their connections change based upon their/our experience.
As members of the same human species, you and I share all but 0.01% (1/100th of 1%) of identical genetic sequences. So biologically, as a species, you and I are virtually identical to one another at the level of our genes (99.99%). Looking around at the diversity within our human race, it is obvious that 0.01% accounts for a significant difference in how we look, think, and behave. The portion of our brain that separates us from all other mammals is the outer undulated and convoluted cerebral cortex. Although other mammals do have a cerebral cortex, the human cortex has approximately twice the thickness and is believed to have twice the function. Our cerebral cortex is divided into two major hemispheres, which complement one another in function.
The limbic system functions by placing an affect, or emotion, on information streaming in through our senses. Because we share these structures with other creatures, the limbic system cells are often referred to as the "reptilian brain" or the "emotional brain." When we are newborns, these cells become wired together in response to sensory stimulation. It is interesting to note that although our limbic system functions throughout our lifetime, it does not mature. As a result, when our emotional "buttons" are pushed, we retain the ability to react to incoming stimulation as though we were a two year old, even when we are adults.
As our higher cortical cells mature and become integrated in complex networks with other neurons, we gain the ability to take "new pictures" of the present moment. When we compare the new information of our thinking mind with the automatic reactivity of our limbic mind, we can reevaluate the current situation and purposely choose a more mature response.
When incoming stimulation is perceived as familiar, the amygdala is calm and the adjacently positioned hippocampus is capable of learning and memorizing new information. However, as soon as the amygdala is triggered by unfamiliar or perhaps threatening stimulation, it raises the brain's level of anxiety and focuses the mind's attention on the immediate situation. Under these circumstances, our attention is shifted away from the hippocampus and focused toward self-preserving behavior about the present moment.
Sensory information streams in through our sensory systems and is immediately processed through our limbic system. By the time a message reaches our cerebral cortex for higher thinking, we have already placed a "feeling" upon how we view that stimulation - is this pain or is this pleasure? Although many of us may think of ourselves as thinking creatures that feel, biologically we are feeling creatures that think.
As information processing machines, our ability to process data about the external world begins at the level of sensory perception. Although most of us are rarely aware of it, our sensory receptors are designed to detect information at the energy level. Because everything around us - the air we breathe, even the materials we use to build with, are composed of spinning and vibrating atomic particles, you and I are literally swimming in a turbulent sea of electromagnetic fields. We are part of it. We are enveloped within it, and through our sensory apparatus we experience what is.
Arteries carry blood into the brain and their shape tapers smaller and smaller as they travel farther away from the heart. These arteries carry life-supporting oxygen necessary for cells, including neurons, to survive. With ischemic stroke, a blood clot travels into the artery until the tapered diameter of the artery becomes too small for the clot to pass any farther. The blood clot blocks the flow of oxygen-rich blood to the cells beyond the point of obstruction. Consequently, brain cells become traumatized and often die. Since neurons generally do not regenerate, the dead neurons are not replaced. The function of the deceased cells may be lost permanently, unless other neurons adapt over time to carry out their function. Because every brain is unique in its neurological wiring, every brain is unique in its ability to recover from trauma.
The hemorrhagic stroke occurs when blood escapes from the arteries and floods into the brain. Seventeen percent of all strokes are hemorrhagic. Blood is toxic to neurons when it comes in direct contact with them, so any leak or vascular blowout can have devastating effects on the brain. One form of stroke, the aneurysm (an-yu-rism), forms when there is a weakening in the wall of a blood vessel that consequently balloons out. The weakened area fills with blood and can readily rupture, spewing large volumes of blood into the skull. Any type of hemorrhage is often life threatening.
Via our left hemisphere language centers, our mind speaks to us constantly, a phenomenon I refer to as "brain chatter." It is that voice reminding you to pick up bananas on your way home and that calculating intelligence that knows when you have to do your laundry. There is vast individual variation in the speed at which our minds function. For some, our dialogue of brain chatter runs so fast that we can barely keep up with what we are thinking. Others of us think in language so slowly that it takes a long time for us to comprehend. Still others of us have a problem retaining our focus and concentration long enough to act on our thoughts. These variations in normal processing stem back to our brain cells and how each brain is intrinsically wired.
People who have damage in their left hemisphere often cannot create or understand speech because the cells in their language centers have been injured. However, they are often genius at being able to determine if someone is telling the truth, thanks to the cells in their right hemisphere. On the other hand, if someone has damage to their right hemisphere, they may not appropriately assess the emotional content of a message. For example, if I am playing blackjack at a party and I say, "hit me!" a person with a damaged right hemisphere may think I am asking him to physically strike me rather than understand that I am simply asking for another card. Without the right hemisphere's ability to evaluate communication in the context of the bigger picture, the left hemisphere tends to interpret everything literally.
Music is another great example of how our two hemispheres complement one another in function. When we methodically and meticulously drill our scales over and over again, when we learn to read the language of staff notation, and when we memorize which fingering on an instrument will create which named note, we are tapping primarily into the skills of our left brain. Our right brain kicks into high gear when we are doing things in the present moment - like performing, improvising or playing by ear.
As I lifted my leg to step into the tub, I held on to the wall for support. It seemed odd that I could sense the inner activities of my brain as it adjusted and readjusted all of the opposing muscle groups in my lower extremities to prevent me from falling over. My perception of these automatic body responses was no longer an exercise in intellectual conceptualization. Instead, I was momentarily privy to a precise and experiential understanding of how hard the fifty trillion cells in my brain and body were working in perfect unison to maintain the flexibility and integrity of my physical form.
The harder I tried to concentrate, the more fleeting my ideas seemed to be. Instead of finding answers and information, I met a growing sense of peace. In place of that constant chatter that had attached me to the details of my life, I felt enfolded by a blanket of tranquil euphoria. How fortunate I was that the portion of my brain that registered fear, my amygdala, had not reacted with alarm to these unusual circumstances and shifted me into a state of panic. As the language centers in my left hemisphere grew increasingly silent and I became detached from the memories of my life, I was comforted by an expanding sense of grace. In this void of higher cognition and details pertaining to my normal life, my consciousness soared into an all-knowingness, a "being at one" with the universe, if you will. In a compelling sort of way, it felt like the good road home and I liked it.
Wow, what a strange and amazing thing I am. What a bizarre living being I am. Life! I am life! I am a sea of water bound inside this membranous pouch. Here, in this form, I am a conscious mind and this body is the vehicle through which I am ALIVE! I am trillions of cells sharing a common mind. I am here, now, thriving as life. Wow! What an unfathomable concept! I am cellular life, no - I am molecular life with manual dexterity and a cognitive mind!
As I visualized the road to McLean Hospital, I was literally thrown off balance when my right arm dropped completely paralyzed against my side. In that moment I knew. Oh my gosh, I'm having a stroke! I'm having a stroke! And in the next instant, the thought flashed through my mind, Wow, this is so cool!
Throughout my youth, my mind had been much more interested in how things were intuitively related (right hemisphere) than how they were categorically different (left hemisphere). My mind preferred thinking in pictures (right hemisphere), as opposed to language (left hemisphere). It wasn't until my graduate school years and fascination with anatomy that my mind excelled in detail memorization and retrieval. After a childhood of information processing through sensory, visual, and pattern association strategies, the tapestry of my knowledge was all intimately inter-linked.
On this morning, as I sat and contemplated the phone number for work, I remembered that there was something unique about the patterning of our office codes. Something like, my number ended in 1-0; which was the exact opposite of my boss's number which ended in 0-1; and my colleague's number fell right in the middle. But because my left hemisphere was drowning in a puddle of blood, I could not access the specifics of my mental inquiry, and the linearity of mathematics befuddled me. I kept thinking, What's in the middle between 01 and 10? I decided that looking at the phone keypad might be helpful.
A consciousness that was different from the one I had known before, however, because my left hemisphere had been packed with details about how to make sense of the external world. These details had been organized and ingrained as neuronal circuits in my brain. Here, in the absence of that circuitry, I felt inanimate and awkward. My consciousness had shifted. I was still in here -I was still me, but without the richness of the emotional and cognitive connections my life had known. So, was I really still me? How could I still be Dr. Jill Bolte Taylor, when I no longer shared her life experiences, thoughts, and emotional attachments?
I felt like a genie liberated from its bottle. The energy of my spirit seemed to flow like a great whale gliding through a sea of silent euphoria. Finer than the finest of pleasures we can experience as physical beings, this absence of physical boundary was one of glorious bliss. As my consciousness dwelled in a flow of sweet tranquility, it was obvious to me that I would never be able to squeeze the enormousness of my spirit back inside this tiny cellular matrix.
I existed in some remote space that seemed to be far away from my normal information processing, and it was clear that the "I" whom I had grown up to be had not survived this neurological catastrophe. I understood that that Dr. Jill Bolte Taylor died that morning, and yet, with that said, who was left? Or, with my left hemisphere destroyed, perhaps I should now say, who was right? Without a language center telling me: "I am Dr. Jill Bolte Taylor. I am a neuroanatomist. I live at this address and can be reached at this phone number," I felt no obligation to being her anymore. It was truly a bizarre shift in perception, but without her emotional circuitry reminding me of her likes and dislikes, or her ego center reminding me about her patterns of critical judgment, I didn't think like her anymore. From a practical perspective, considering the amount of biological damage, being her again wasn't even an option! In my mind, in my new perspective, that Dr. Jill Bolte Taylor died that morning and no longer existed. Now that I didn't know her life - her relationships, successes and mistakes, I was no longer bound to her decisions or self-induced limitations.
Prior to this morning when I had experienced myself as a solid, I had possessed the ability to experience loss -either physical loss via death or injury, or emotional loss through heartache. But in this shifted perception, it was impossible for me to perceive either physical or emotional loss because I was not capable of experiencing separation or individuality. Despite my neurological trauma, an unforgettable sense of peace pervaded my entire being and I felt calm.
I was simply a being of light radiating life into the world. Regardless of whether or not I had a body or brain that could connect me to the world of others, I saw myself as a cellular masterpiece. In the absence of my left hemisphere's negative judgment, I perceived myself as perfect, whole, and beautiful just the way I was.
Although recovery would take years, certain parts
On that first day, my condition progressed and improved rapidly in some areas, but not at all in others. Although recovery would take years, certain parts of my brain were still intact and eagerly engaged in trying to decipher the billions of bits of data making up the present moment. The most notable difference between my pre- and post-stroke cognitive experience was the dramatic silence that had taken up residency inside my head. It wasn't that I could not think anymore, I just didn't think in the same way. Communication with the external world was out. Language with linear processing was out. But thinking in pictures was in. Gathering glimpses of information, moment by moment, and then taking time to ponder the experience, was in.
One of my doctors asked me the question, "Who is the President of the United States?" In order for me to process this question and come up with an answer, I had to first realize that a question was being asked of me. Once I realized someone wanted my attention, I needed them to repeat the question so I could focus on the sounds being spoken, and then I had to pay really close attention to the movement of their lips. Because it was very difficult for my ears to distinguish a single voice from background noise, I needed the question to be repeated slowly and enunciated clearly. I needed calm, clear communication. I may have had a dense expression on my face and appeared ignorant, but my mind was very busy concentrating on the acquisition of new information. My responses came slowly. Much too slowly for the real world.
Paying attention to what someone was saying took an enormous amount of effort, and I found it to be tiring. First, I had to pay attention with my eyes and ears, neither of which were working normally. My brain had to capture the sound and then match that sound up with a specific lip movement. Then, it had to search and see if there was any meaning for those combinations of sounds stored anywhere in my wounded brain. Once I got one word figured out then I had to search for combinations of words, and with an impaired mind, that took hours!
Because of my academics, I intellectually conceptualized my body as a compilation of various neurological programs, but it wasn't until this experience with stroke that I really understood that we all have the ability to lose pieces of ourselves one program at a time. I never really pondered what it would be like to lose my mind, more specifically, my left mind. I wish there were a safe way to induce this awareness in people. It might prove to be enlightening.
Imagine, if you will, what it would feel like to have each of your natural faculties systematically peeled away from your consciousness. First, imagine you lose your ability to make sense of sound coming in through your ears. You are not deaf, you simply hear all sound as chaos and noise. Second, remove your ability to see the defined forms of any objects in your space. You are not blind, you simply cannot see three-dimensionally, or identify color. You have no ability to track an object in motion or distinguish clear boundaries between objects. In addition, common smells become so amplified that they overwhelm you, making it difficult for you to catch your breath. No longer capable of perceiving temperature, vibration, pain, or proprioception (position of your limbs), your awareness of your physical boundaries shift. The essence of your energy expands as it blends with the energy around you, and you sense that you are as big as the universe. Those little voices inside your head, reminding you of who you are and where you live, become silent. You lose memory connection to your old emotional self and the richness of this moment, right here, right now, captivates your perception. Everything, including the life force you are, radiates pure energy. With childlike curiosity, your heart soars in peace and your mind explores new ways of swimming in a sea of euphoria. Then ask yourself, how motivated would you be to come back to a highly structured routine?
Making the decision to recover was a difficult, complicated, and cognitive choice for me. On the one hand, I loved the bliss of drifting in the current of the eternal flow. Who wouldn't? It was beautiful there. My spirit beamed free, enormous, and peaceful. In the rapture of an engulfing bliss, I had to question what recovery really meant. Clearly, there were some advantages to having a functional left hemisphere. It would allow me the skills of interacting with the external world again. In this state of disability, however, attending to what I perceived as chaos was pure pain, and the effort it would take for me to recover, well, was that my priority?
aghast when I realized it was their plan to cut
By day four, I was still spending most of my time sleeping as my brain craved minimal stimulation. It was not that I was depressed, but my brain was on sensory overload and could not process the barrage of incoming information. G.G. and I agreed that my brain knew best what it needed to do in order to recover. Unfortunately, it is not common for stroke survivors to be permitted to sleep as much as they would like. But for me, we felt that sleep was my brain's way of taking a "time-out" from new stimulation. We acknowledged that my brain was still physically traumatized and it was obviously totally confused concerning the information coming in through my sensory systems
Cognitively, I struggled to comprehend my existence. I still couldn't think in terms of past or future so I burned a lot of mental energy trying to piece together my present moment.
A lot of stroke survivors complain that they are no longer recovering. I often wonder if the real problem is that no one is paying attention to the little accomplishments that are being made. If the boundary between what you can do and what you cannot do is not clearly defined, then you don't know what to try next. Recovery can be derailed by hopelessness.
My energy reserve did not discriminate between cognitive versus physical activity. Energy use was energy use so we had to create a balanced strategy for recovering everything. As soon as I was able to walk around my apartment with some assistance, G.G. took me on a tour of my life. We began in the art space as I had an entire room set up for cutting stained glass. As I looked around the room, I was amazed. All of this gloriously beautiful glass! How delightful! I was an artist. And then she took me into my music room. When I strummed the strings on my guitar and then my cello, I marveled at the magic in my life. I wanted to recover.
It had been over a week since my brain had experienced the severe trauma of the hemorrhage, but the cells in my brain were still not capable of functioning correctly because of the golf ball-sized blood clot. From my perspective, I felt that every present moment was rich with experience and existed in absolute isolation. Once my back was turned, however, I was in a new rich moment and the details of the past lingered in an image or a feeling but quickly disappeared.
It still blows my mind (so to speak) that I could not see color until I was told that color was a tool I could use. Who would have guessed that my left hemisphere needed to be told about color in order for it to register? I found the same to be true for seeing in three dimensions. G.G. had to teach me that I could see things in different planes. She pointed out to me how some objects were closer or farther away, and that some things could be positioned in front of others. I had to be taught that items, which are positioned behind other items, may have some of their parts hidden, and that I could make assumptions about the shapes of things that I could not see in their entirety.
Balancing myself in front of the sink and handling delicate plates and dangerous knives was pretty challenging in and of itself, but who would guess that organizing a clean dish rack required the ability to calculate? As it turns out, the only neurons in my brain that actually died on the morning of the stroke were the ones capable of understanding mathematics. (How ironic it was that my mother had spent her entire life teaching mathematics!) I could handle washing dishes, but calculating how to get all those clean dishes to fit in that tiny little rack, well, that totally dumbfounded me! It took almost a year for me to figure it out.
There is no question in my mind that it was the power of this unconditional support and love that gave me the courage to face the challenges of recovery. I will always be grateful for my friends and NAMI family who reached out to me and believed in me.
Learning to read again was by far the hardest thing I had to do. I don't know if those cells in my brain had died or what, but I had no recollection that reading was something I had ever done before, and I thought the concept was ridiculous. Reading was such an abstract idea that I couldn't believe anyone had ever thought of it, much less put forth the effort to figure out how to do it.
Although I would think that I wanted a glass of water, and picture a glass of water in my mind, the word "milk" would still come out of my mouth. Although it was helpful for people to correct me, it was vitally important that no one either finish my sentences or constantly prompt me. If I were to ever regain these abilities, then I needed to find that circuitry within my mind, in my own time, and exercise it.
She kept reminding me, "What's the first thing a baby does with anything you give it?" The answer, of course, is that it puts it in its mouth to feel it. G.G. knew I needed to have direct physical contact with the world to learn kinesthetically. She was a brilliant teacher.
Again, the cells in my brain that understood mathematics were no longer functioning, and my attempt to deal with something so abstract as money was pitiful. When G.G. queried, "What's one plus one?" I paused for a moment, explored the contents of my mind and responded, "What's a one?" I didn't understand numbers, much less money.
Although I failed miserably at reading and writing with a pen (left hemisphere/right hand), I could sit at my computer and type a simple letter (both hemispheres/both hands) that followed my stream of thought. It took me a very long time as I hunt-and-pecked at the keyboard, but somehow my body/mind connection made it happen. The most interesting thing about this experience was that after I finished typing the letter, I was not capable of reading what I had just written (left hemisphere)! G.G. edited the letter and sent it out the night following my surgery, along with a handwritten note. Since my recovery, I have heard of many stroke survivors who, although they could not speak (left hemisphere), they were capable of singing their messages (both hemispheres). I'm amazed at the resiliency and resourcefulness of this beautiful brain to find a way to communicate!
There atop the boulders overlooking the lights of Boston, I rocked in the breeze and breathed in long, strong, empowering breaths. No matter what the next day's surgery held, this body of mine was the life force power of trillions of healthy cells. For the first time since the stroke, I felt my body was strong enough to endure the upcoming craniotomy.
In order for me to choose the chaos of recovery over the peaceful tranquility of the divine bliss that I had found in the absence of the judgment of my left mind, I had to reframe my perspective from "Why do I have to go back?" to "Why did I get to come to this place of silence?" I realized that the blessing I had received from this experience was the knowledge that deep internal peace is accessible to anyone at any time. I believe the experience of Nirvana exists in the consciousness of our right hemisphere, and that at any moment, we can choose to hook into that part of our brain. With this awareness, I became excited about what a difference my recovery could make in the lives of others - not just those who were recovering from a brain trauma, but everyone with a brain! I imagined the world filled with happy and peaceful people and I became motivated to endure the agony I would have to face in the name of recovery. My stroke of insight would be: peace is only a thought away, and all we have to do to access it is silence the voice of our dominating left mind.
If you wipe out a neuron's genetically programmed function, then those cells will either die from lack of stimulation or they will find something new to do. For example, in the case of vision, if you put a patch over one eye, blocking visual stimulation coming into the cells of the visual cortex, then those cells will reach out to the adjacent cells to see if they can contribute their efforts toward a new function. I needed the people around me to believe in the plasticity of my brain and its ability to grow, learn, and recover.
By the middle of January, a few weeks after surgery, my left brain language center started to come back online and talk to me again. Although I really loved the bliss of a silent mind, I was relieved to know that my left brain had the potential to recover its internal dialogue. Up to this point, I had struggled desperately to link my thoughts together and think across time. The linearity of internal dialogue helped build a foundation and structure for my thoughts.
One of the greatest lessons I learned was how to feel the physical component of emotion. Joy was a feeling in my body. Peace was a feeling in my body. I thought it was interesting that I could feel when a new emotion was triggered. I could feel new emotions flood through me and then release me. I had to learn new words to label these "feeling" experiences, and most remarkably, I learned that I had the power to choose whether to hook into a feeling and prolong its presence in my body, or just let it quickly flow right out of me.
Emotional healing was a tediously slow process but well worth the effort. As my left brain became stronger, it seemed natural for me to want to "blame" other people or external events for my feelings or circumstances. But realistically, I knew that no one had the power to make me feel anything, except for me and my brain. Nothing external to me had the power to take away my peace of heart and mind. That was completely up to me. I may not be in total control of what happens to my life, but I certainly am in charge of how I choose to perceive my experience.
Like a typical patient, I hated my medication because it made me feel tired and lethargic. My biggest complaint, however, was that the medicine masked my ability to know what it felt like to be me anymore. I was already a stranger to myself because of the stroke, but mix in some medication and I was even more disoriented. Because of this experience, I find that I am much more sensitive to why some people would choose insanity over the side effects of their antipsychotic medications.
Working with flash cards helped me drill basic math back into my brain. Now I work with the Nintendo™ Brain Training and Big Brain Academy programs. I think everyone over the age of forty, as well as every stroke survivor, would benefit from using this sort of brain training tool.
When I lost the function of my left brain's neurological networks, I lost not only function but also a variety of personality characteristics that were apparently associated with those circuits of aptitude. Recovering cells of function that were anatomically linked to a lifetime of emotional reactivity and negative thinking has been a mind-opening experience. Although I wanted to regain my left hemisphere skills, I must say that there were personality traits that tried to rise from the ashes of my left mind that, quite frankly, were no longer acceptable to my right hemispheric sense of who I now wanted to be.
Tibetan meditators and Franciscan nuns were invited to meditate or pray inside the SPECT machine. They were instructed to tug on a cotton twine when they reached either their meditative climax or felt united with God. These experiments identified shifts in neurological activity in very specific regions in the brain. First, there was a decrease in the activity of the left hemisphere language centers resulting in a silencing of their brain chatter. Second, there was a decrease in activity in the orientation association area, located in the posterior parietal gyrus of the left hemisphere. This region of our left brain helps us identify our personal physical boundaries. When this area is inhibited or displays decreased input from our sensory systems, we lose sight of where we begin and where we end relative to the space around us.
One of the most prominent characteristics of our left brain is its ability to weave stories. This story-teller portion of our left mind's language center is specifically designed to make sense of the world outside of us, based upon minimal amounts of information. It functions by taking whatever details it has to work with, and then weaves them together in the form of a story. Most impressively, our left brain is brilliant in its ability to make stuff up, and fill in the blanks when there are gaps in its factual data.
Although there are certain limbic system (emotional) programs that can be triggered automatically, it takes less than 90 seconds for one of these programs to be triggered, surge through our body, and then be completely flushed out of our blood stream.
I'm a devout believer that paying attention to our selftalk is vitally important for our mental health. In my opinion, making the decision that internal verbal abuse is not acceptable behavior, is the first step toward finding deep inner peace.
Finding the balance between observing our circuitry and engaging with our circuitry is essential for our healing. Although I celebrate my brain's ability to experience all of my emotions, I am cautious about how long I remain hooked into running any particular loop. The healthiest way I know how to move through an emotion effectively is to surrender completely to that emotion when its loop of physiology comes over me. I simply resign to the loop and let it run its course for 90 seconds. Just like children, emotions heal when they are heard and validated. Over time, the intensity and frequency of these circuits usually abate.
Step one to experiencing inner peace is the willingness to be present in the right here, right now.
"Enlightenment is not a process of learning, it is a process of unlearning."
Listening to music that you love, in the absence of cognitive analysis or judgment, is another great way to come back to the here and now. Let sound move you not just emotionally but physically. Allow your body to rock and sway or dance and play in accordance with the rhythm. Surrender your inhibitions and let your body get caught in the flow.
The more attention we pay to the details of how things look, sound, taste, smell, feel against our skin and feel physiologically inside our body, the easier it is for our brain to recreate any moment. Replacing unwanted thought patterns with vivid imagery can help us shift our consciousness back toward our deep inner peace.
"Do you want to be right, or do you want to be happy?"
we are capable of feeling physical pain without hooking into the emotional loop of suffering.
"I must be willing to give up what I am in order to become what I will be."
In the early years, I may have minimal input into what circuits grow inside my brain because I am the product of the dirt and seeds I have inherited. But to our good fortune, the genius of our DNA is not a dictator, and thanks to our neurons' plasticity, the power of thought, and the wonders of modern medicine, very few outcomes are absolute.
"We must be the change we want to see in the world."