according
to the neurologist your scan shows nothing that would indicate permanent damage.”
I stop listening. The rice pudding I just swallowed seems intent on coming back up. How can
everything just be gone? What if I never get my memory back? What if I never remember who I am? I
feel Joe’s hand clutch mine and squeeze. His sad eyes say everything will be okay. And I believe him.
“The good news,” continues Dr. Singh, “is that this is almost always temporary. And in the
meantime, things like your personality and general knowledge about the world should be unaffected.
It’s primarily your personal and emotional memories that are missing. Essentially you’re the same
person you always were—you just can’t remember the details.”
“So we just wait?” I ask.
“Yes, and keep an eye on things of course.”
“Does that mean he can come home?” asks Joe.
“With proper care, yes. We’ll keep him one more night, just for observation, but barring any
complications, tomorrow morning I’ll stop by and sign the release forms.”
I look up at Joe. He gives me a small smile of encouragement that lifts some of the weight from
my shoulders. At least I won’t be alone. Only later that night, when everything is quiet, does it
suddenly occur to me that I’ll be going home with a stranger.
ARMED with instructions on what I can and can’t do, a prescription for painkillers, and a little
machine I have to blow into every hour to keep my lungs clear, Dr. Singh allows me to be discharged
the next morning. Although I have a follow-up appointment next week, I can go home. Home to a
place I don’t even remember.
Sitting on the bed waiting for Joe to return from filling the prescription in the hospital pharmacy,
I start to feel anxious. “Are you sure I shouldn’t stay here just a little longer?” I ask the nurse as she
slips fleece-lined hiking boots onto my feet since I can barely dress myself. Joe has thought of
everything, bringing me fresh clothes and a heavy down coat—the price tag is still attached to the
sleeve, and I wonder why he’s had to run out and buy something new.
“There’s nothing more we can do here. Besides, you don’t want to spend Christmas in the
hospital. You’ll be more comfortable at home.” She carefully slides my arms into the coat as though
she were dressing a toddler. “Your boyfriend knows what to do and who to contact in case of
emergency.”
My boyfriend . I only wish I could be as sure as the nurse. For all I know I could be going home
with a serial killer or sex fiend. Then, as if summoned, Joe enters the room pushing an empty
wheelchair, and I only have to look into those soft brown eyes—full of worry and bloodshot from
lack of sleep—to realize I am being an idiot. How could I be anything but safe with this man? I give
him a tentative smile. Everything will be okay. It has to be.
Just as I am settling into the wheelchair, there is a soft tap at the open door. A tall, thin older
man with silver hair and day’s growth of stubble stands there fidgeting nervously with a red wool hat.
“Um, hello,” he starts. “I’m Hank Wheeler.” I look up at Joe for help. Should I know this man? He’s
not a doctor, because he’s wearing regular clothes. But Joe’s face, which I have only ever seen sad or
worried, is cold and tight.
“The man who hit you,” Joe says flatly. I curl my fingers in Joe’s and give him a little tug to
behave. What happened to me was an accident pure and simple. I already know the police are not
pressing charges; Wheeler blew clean in the Breathalyzer. He was the first to call 911 and stayed
with me until the police and ambulance arrived. There is nothing more he could have done.
“I just wanted to make sure you were all right. I’ve never… nothing like this has ever happened
to me before. You just ran out right in front of me. The road was so damned slippery I couldn’t stop in
time.” He sighs and it is
to the neurologist your scan shows nothing that would indicate permanent damage.”
I stop listening. The rice pudding I just swallowed seems intent on coming back up. How can
everything just be gone? What if I never get my memory back? What if I never remember who I am? I
feel Joe’s hand clutch mine and squeeze. His sad eyes say everything will be okay. And I believe him.
“The good news,” continues Dr. Singh, “is that this is almost always temporary. And in the
meantime, things like your personality and general knowledge about the world should be unaffected.
It’s primarily your personal and emotional memories that are missing. Essentially you’re the same
person you always were—you just can’t remember the details.”
“So we just wait?” I ask.
“Yes, and keep an eye on things of course.”
“Does that mean he can come home?” asks Joe.
“With proper care, yes. We’ll keep him one more night, just for observation, but barring any
complications, tomorrow morning I’ll stop by and sign the release forms.”
I look up at Joe. He gives me a small smile of encouragement that lifts some of the weight from
my shoulders. At least I won’t be alone. Only later that night, when everything is quiet, does it
suddenly occur to me that I’ll be going home with a stranger.
ARMED with instructions on what I can and can’t do, a prescription for painkillers, and a little
machine I have to blow into every hour to keep my lungs clear, Dr. Singh allows me to be discharged
the next morning. Although I have a follow-up appointment next week, I can go home. Home to a
place I don’t even remember.
Sitting on the bed waiting for Joe to return from filling the prescription in the hospital pharmacy,
I start to feel anxious. “Are you sure I shouldn’t stay here just a little longer?” I ask the nurse as she
slips fleece-lined hiking boots onto my feet since I can barely dress myself. Joe has thought of
everything, bringing me fresh clothes and a heavy down coat—the price tag is still attached to the
sleeve, and I wonder why he’s had to run out and buy something new.
“There’s nothing more we can do here. Besides, you don’t want to spend Christmas in the
hospital. You’ll be more comfortable at home.” She carefully slides my arms into the coat as though
she were dressing a toddler. “Your boyfriend knows what to do and who to contact in case of
emergency.”
My boyfriend . I only wish I could be as sure as the nurse. For all I know I could be going home
with a serial killer or sex fiend. Then, as if summoned, Joe enters the room pushing an empty
wheelchair, and I only have to look into those soft brown eyes—full of worry and bloodshot from
lack of sleep—to realize I am being an idiot. How could I be anything but safe with this man? I give
him a tentative smile. Everything will be okay. It has to be.
Just as I am settling into the wheelchair, there is a soft tap at the open door. A tall, thin older
man with silver hair and day’s growth of stubble stands there fidgeting nervously with a red wool hat.
“Um, hello,” he starts. “I’m Hank Wheeler.” I look up at Joe for help. Should I know this man? He’s
not a doctor, because he’s wearing regular clothes. But Joe’s face, which I have only ever seen sad or
worried, is cold and tight.
“The man who hit you,” Joe says flatly. I curl my fingers in Joe’s and give him a little tug to
behave. What happened to me was an accident pure and simple. I already know the police are not
pressing charges; Wheeler blew clean in the Breathalyzer. He was the first to call 911 and stayed
with me until the police and ambulance arrived. There is nothing more he could have done.
“I just wanted to make sure you were all right. I’ve never… nothing like this has ever happened
to me before. You just ran out right in front of me. The road was so damned slippery I couldn’t stop in
time.” He sighs and it is
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