What started as an exciting school outing turned into a life-changing ordeal. Over three decades later, I'm still living with the effects of a playground accident that caused a traumatic brain injury.
In July 1991, during my seventh-grade year, our class headed out for a school trip. The bus arrived right on time, and we buzzed with anticipation en route to the Discovery Center in Rotterdam. We spent the morning there, enjoying hands-on activities—my standout memory? Crafting homemade chips. (More on that soon.)
After lunch, we moved to Plaswijckpark, a popular playground. Chaos ensued as kids dashed between attractions like a pack of excited monkeys. I spotted the ship swings—metal boat-shaped seats for two, perfect for high-flying fun. I first tried with my sister, but she wasn't up for big swings, so I recruited a classmate who promised to go all out.
We launched into the air, but it wasn't thrilling enough. Like many kids, we climbed onto the narrow edges, gripping the center bars. No signs warned against it, and everyone was doing the same. As we soared higher, I shouted, "We're going to flip!" Thrilled—until disaster struck.
I blacked out mid-fall, so this comes from eyewitness accounts. Teachers watched in horror, fearing we'd capsize. Instead, I tumbled out. Incredibly, I avoided catastrophe: an iron gate with sharp spikes loomed behind, and beyond that, another fence that could have snapped my neck. A direct hit on the sand followed by the swing would have been devastating too.
Somehow, I twisted mid-air, landing face-up beneath the swing. Angels must have intervened—I survived what should have been fatal.
Teachers sprang into action, resuscitating me as paramedics arrived. I vaguely recall hearing an ambulance was coming before fading out again. At the hospital, scans revealed a concussion—"only" that, miraculously. I woke briefly to questions, then passed out. Even our school bus stopped by for updates; everyone was relieved I was stable.
That afternoon, a taxi took me home with a teacher. Nausea hit hard in the backseat, triggered by the faint smell of those chips. Against medical advice—which I, a stubborn 12-year-old, ignored—I insisted on going home.
At home, I crawled upstairs to my sister's bottom bunk (top was impossible). I was unconscious for hours, stirring only when Mom checked my memory with basic questions. By Thursday, I managed soup and short wakeful periods, though chunks of memory were gone.
Friday improved; I ate more and moved around. Saturday? The annual Smurf Festival in Scheveningen beckoned. Despite the concussion, warm weather, and free Kellogg's samples, my parents—lacking medical insight and seeing me perk up—let me go. I stayed all day, unaware of the long-term cost.
Recovery seemed steady at first, aside from memory lapses. Then severe migraines struck: vomiting, excruciating head pain, blackouts. Related reading: Living with migraine
They persist today, though better managed with dietary changes and custom insoles that eased neck and shoulder strain. Proper hospital bed rest might have prevented this. Instead, I adapted young to chronic pain, ditching thrills like swings or carousels—my body still reacts instinctively.
My family adjusts too, and it's challenging. Plaswijckpark later added warning signs—too late for me.
Protected by extra guardian angels, that day reshaped my life forever.
