Mark Twain and me

...A dispatch from bewilderness

This story begins when someone in scrubs asks me to puff out my cheeks. Then she tells me to open my mouth and say Ahhhh. Then she uses the sharp end of a broken cotton swab to test pain sensation on forehead, cheek, and each side of my face.

Next she asks: Do you know what year it is? I point to my head. Then she asks, Do you know your address? I point to my head again. Can you say your mother’s name? Most of the time, I just point to my head.

The story continues when the character receives an email that makes her want to call her mother, who’s been dead for nineteen years. The character is more or less me. I/she/we get things confused. This has to do with her brain and her age.

Let’s start with her brain. A bit broken now. Brain damage is like watching the beginning and end of a movie, and missing the middle, or having the middle and not knowing how it began. Or having the end and not knowing what came before.

And then there’s her age. She used to be young. Back then, poles weren’t melting, bots weren’t chatting, seniors were in their fourth year of school. This was way before Megxit, Brexit and my own Brainxit. Things weren’t cAse sENsitiVe.

She/I relearned how to walk and talk and read, and more or less, relearned to write. She/I made lemons from lemonade when her mind was inside out and lemonade from lemons when it was in better shape.

Mark Twain said some people bring joy wherever they go — while others bring joy whenever they go. She/I try to stay in the former group as much as possible, or at least not to get stuck in the latter.