My name is J

a dispatch from bewilderness

I met my friend in a café today and I am happy to see her. I am trying to be the “me” I was before. I know that when she pauses, it is my turn to speak. I have to comprehend what she says and say something coherent when it is my turn.

But the harder I try to make sense, the harder it gets to breathe. I am trying to be normal, act normal, have a nice normal lunch with a nice, normal friend. She doesn’t know if it’s me at the table or someone else, not really me at all.  Neither do I.

I can’t find words like I used to, can’t line them up and connect them, can’t make them do what I need them to do. That is called aphasia. I lost more things, too, but I forget what. That’s because I also acquired amnesia. It makes nothing out of countless somethings I know, don’t know, then know again.

My name is J. I used to have a name with more letters, but that was before the truck. I lost a piece of my mind and sometimes it shows on my face. I pray that it won’t, but I know that it does. Words jam in my ears if I hear them.  Jam in my throat if I try to say them.  Jam in my skull if I see them.  I can’t decipher a menu.

Amnesia gouged my memory. Aphasia gouged my speech. A truck changed my mind, causing in me the type of brain damage former congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords suffered from a shot in the head. I got a new life no one would choose plus a new brain no one would pick. That’s supposed to be a pun.

In my first life, I was witty, gritty, off the wall, efficient, proficient, anonymous.  This was called freelance writing.  I wrote about places I didn’t go, and things I didn’t do, for legends and icons I didn’t know. Think Oprah, Martha, Elmo, and a Devil-Wears-Prada, or two.

I even taught writing once in a while. After that I couldn’t teach writing.  I couldn’t teach anything.  I couldn’t read or write.  Everyone wants to hire the best person they can find and I wasn’t it. 

My friend touches my hand and suggests we order food.  I’m out-of-order, way more out-of-order than she seemed to know.  A few times a day I can put a few words together, hanging somewhat randomly, like clothes on a line, or even say them out loud.  This doesn’t seem to be one of those times.