Good news

...a dispatch from bewilderness

Imagine two groups of people on any subject. One is the group of experts who know it backward and forward. The other is the group that “doesn’t know it at all.” They’re the same people, only they’re brain injured now.

We were custodians, the dean of a college, a pre-k teacher, a former attorney, an FBI agent, a fiddler, a farmer, a food cart owner, a baker, a builder, a short-order cook. A strange mix of genius, forensics, falafels, and corporate law.

Someone in scrubs showed up and said something about not wanting to pressure me. That almost seemed funny. She added something like I could decide what I wanted to know, or how much I wanted to know, or when I wanted to know it. That seemed almost funny, too.

Robin forgot the names of her kids. Steve forgot his mom and dad. I couldn’t remember favorite times with my child and the sound of her voice and the scent of her hair. Those were the worst things I lost.

I sometimes forgot I’d been shipped to Virginia. That means I wondered if I should move to a place I already lived in, or leave a place I already left. Everything folds together in the (literal) folds of the brain. If the brain were not folded but rather pieced together in a continuous line, it would stretch around the Earth or from Memphis to the moon. One of those is true, but I forget which one.

The day of the accident, I acquired a “pre-existing” condition. It was serious and incurable. In just the first few weeks, I racked up $46,817.50 in hospital bills. That fifty cents was a nice touch. For years, it was the only part of the bill I could recall. Some things you can’t remember. Some things you can’t forget. Plus I started getting old, and kept doing it. That’s the good news. I’m still here.

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