When I Was Jane

by Theresa Mieczkowski

“No. It’s fine,” Jason says.

  “But if visiting hours are over, I don’t want people thinking I get special treatment because of you.” I yawn, feeling warm and woozy from whatever she just put in my IV.

  “They won’t. You’ll be knocked out in a minute anyway.”

  I relax into the blankets as a pleasant numbness creeps over me. “OK. But please go tell her it was your idea to lie in the bed.”

  “Forget her. I'm staying right here. Don’t worry, I've got you.”

  “Why would I be worried?” I ask.

  “You're not afraid?”

  “Of what?”

  “Never mind,” he whispers. “Thank God you made it through. I’m going to live up to the promises I made and make sure you’re better. No matter what.”

  “Mm hmm.”

  “Do you hear me, Audrey? I'm going to do whatever I have to do to make your life perfect now.”

  The name sounds even more foreign when he says it. I fight to keep my eyes open. “That’s not my name.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “No, they said my name was Jane.” I can’t be sure if I’ve said it out loud or not. The soothing sound of his voice is coaxing me to sleep. I imagine for a moment he’s kissed my forehead.

  “I'll call you whatever you want if you promise to never leave me again,” he says.

  Feeling myself slip into the welcoming darkness, I try to rush the words from my mouth. “I’m sure she didn't mean to leave you; they said it was an accident.”

  ~5~

  Dr. Patel shines his light in my eye. “Things have been progressing well these last few days. Not too bad, Aud—” He purses his lips and puts his instrument down. “Jane.”

  “It's weird, isn't it? Wanting people to call me that,” I say.

  “Not if it will help you. A body cannot heal with an uneasy mind holding it back.”

  “But I’m asking for your personal opinion. Not so much philosophical doctor advice.”

  He tries to hold back a smile.

  “That's not what she would have said, is it? She was more polite than that.”

  “Who?” he asks.

  “Audrey. She would have just accepted your answer, right?” The shock of my situation has worn off, and I've decided the only way to navigate this is to be brutally honest with the people around me.

  “Perhaps. But try not to see yourself as a separate person from her. It would be better for you to say I.”

  “Like I wish you could tell me what I was like before so I can get my memory back?”

  Dr. Patel sighs. “There is absolutely no benefit from forcing memories on you. Reminders cannot restore your memory. In fact, giving you information you don't remember could cause you to become frustrated and depressed, which could affect how your mind and memory heal.” He makes his way over to the window and looks out at the sky. “You need to remember in your own time and recover your own feelings about those memories. You still have very serious injuries, my dear.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “We can't guess. At least not until we know the full effect of the physical damage. Some people spontaneously remember everything at once; others regain their memory little by little. And some…”

  I finish for him so he doesn’t have to say it. “Some not at all.”

  He pats my hand. “Right now we just have to be patient and complete some tests. Brain damage isn’t entirely about personal memory loss.”

  The next round of tests is completely different from the last. I’m moved slowly through one machine and then another and another. Technicians patiently give commands though microphones, asking me to repeat words and phrases or recall patterns of letters and numbers. Once I answer, thumps of motors stopping and starting echo though the walls around me. I wonder how many people have come through these machines and successfully returned to their normal lives—presuming, of course, they had normal lives to return to. I wish one of them had written notes of encouragement on the walls in here, leaving behind words of wisdom, like MRI cave drawings or hieroglyphics or…

  “Audrey, please try to focus on what we’re doing.”

  Perched in front of their computers, Dr. Patel and his staff observe and record my brain activity. I imagine how their screens light up when my mind goes off on a tangent about hieroglyphics. To them I’m something to study, a lump of neurons and synapses and grey matter, a lab rat in a thin white gown waiting for the piece of cheese that will bring my memories back and make this entire experience nothing but a story to tell at dinner parties. I wonder if Audrey ever threw dinner parties.

  “Mrs. Gilbert, please try to repeat the numbers,” the voice in the tunnel says again.

  “Sorry,” I say into the little speaker near my face. “My mind was wandering. But you probably already know that.”

  They don’t even give me a laugh.

  “We’re ready to move on,” Dr. Patel says once I’m returned to my room. “Procedural memory governs the performance of simple daily tasks that occur below the level of consciousness. It is a variation of implicit or unconscious memory, which calls on past learning without thinking about it.”

  He checks my eyes, my reflexes, my motor skills. I tie laces on little cards shaped like shoes, over and over again. He has me pull a rope, throw a ball, and give him a high five. I balance a ping pong ball on a spoon fairly well—for a person using only one eye, that is. I’m given a pencil and asked to hold it as one would when writing. I’m given paper and asked to write the alphabet. I take little breaks when my headaches and dizziness come back, which is often.

  “When you’re able to walk, we will test more gross motor skills like hopping, jumping with both feet, and walking in a straight line. For the time being, we have to rely on what you’re able to do today, but even these tests will have to be repeated once your fractures heal.”

  I’m concerned as to how much brain damage he believes I have, but he will only say we have to do more tests, and my ability to worry about it is a good thing. He asks a barrage of questions: Is a hammer a tool? Which of these things is not a food: a carrot, a bagel, a shoe? Kitten is to cat as seed is to what? After half an hour of that, my head hurts just from the sound of his voice.

  Dr. Patel jots some notes on his pad. “You have retained both your semantic and your implicit memory, which tells me the damage is seemingly limited to episodic memories at this point. This indicates that it’s actually the parahippocampal cortex, the grey matter surrounding the hippocampus, which has the damage.”

  “What does that mean for my recovery?”

  “It remains to be seen. Your physical injuries prevent us from running the full tests. There are people who suffered traumatic brain injuries and ended up with some episodic memory but no semantic, or the reverse. Last year, we had a man who remembered nothing of his life after a diving accident. He couldn't write his name or tie his shoes, but incredibly, he retained the ability to play the piano as well as Beethoven and read music. It is completely subjective.”

  “How’s that possible?” I ask.

  “Because your brain stores and interprets information in separate areas. Procedural memory—knowing how to drive a car, or play an instrument, or do normal daily chores—is stored in the cerebellum, a completely different part of the brain from the cortex, which holds the episodic memories. In some cases, information is still present but stuck in a place where it cannot be recalled. We haven't even gone over the psychological effects we touched upon the other day. There can be major psychological ramifications to brain function during a trauma.” He looks at me sternly over the tops of his glasses. “And I would qualify nearly dying in a car accident as such a trauma. In addition to all of this, memory is constructive. Previous experience dictates how and why we cling to certain events and how we perceive them, which in turn determines what is stored and what is not.”

  “What about the fugue state you mentioned the other day?”

  “A fugue state is a period of reversi
ble personal memory loss brought on by a traumatic episode or incredible stress. In some cases it can be the result of psychoactive substance use or even injury, but it is very rare and often diagnosed after the fact. An individual may suddenly find themselves miles away from home and not know how they got there, having lost track of several days.”

  “How come that kind is reversible and mine might not be?” I fold my arms across my chest and sulk. It’s the only thing I can think to do since I can’t stomp a foot on the floor.

  A knock on the open door interrupts us.

  “Ready for visitors, yet?” Another doctor, about Jason’s age, leans in with a bouquet of pale pink peonies tucked under his arm. The choice of flowers can't be a coincidence; he must have known Audrey well.

  He waves a small container in his hand. “Ben & Jerry here. New York Super Fudge Chunk, your favorite.” He strides into the room but stops abruptly at the foot of my bed and winces when he looks at me.

  Dr. Patel turns and greets him with a nod. “Charles, perfect timing. I was just going.”

  “Don't let me chase you off, old man. Unless, of course, you’re still upset about the little prank from yesterday.”

  “Yes, very clever. Saran-Wrapping toilets in the doctors’ lounge,” Dr. Patel says and frowns at me. “This one and your husband seem to think our hospital is a frat house.”

  I steal a glance around Dr. Patel and begin to suspect that young and annoyingly good looking is becoming a prerequisite for practicing medicine. “Charles” looks back at me, his blue eyes smirking as if we’re in on some sort of joke together. He runs his hand along a scruffy beard that’s not fully grown in, more of a deliberate five o’clock shadow. I don’t recognize him at all.

  “Do I know him?” I whisper.

  Dr. Patel winks at me playfully. “Unfortunately for you, yes. Thick as thieves, you three.”

  “Don't forget that you are on this evening, Charles. Plus taking my on call duty for the next three rotations. Serves you right.” Dr. Patel turns his back to the other man and gathers up his supplies to leave. “It's all in great fun,” he says to me softly. “Just don't tell him I said so.”

  I lean towards Dr. Patel, as close as I can get. “Now would be a good time for a mirror.”

  Instead of answering me, he strolls from the room whistling, and for the second time in two days, I’m left alone with an unknown man handing me flowers.

  He plops down on the bed and carefully nudges my casted leg with his elbow. “So, how do you feel? Other than the fact you have no idea who any of us are, of course.” He peels the top off the ice cream carton and pulls two silver spoons from the pocket of his lab coat. “Stole these from the cafeteria.”

  I take a spoon from him. It’s both relieving and off-putting how comfortable he is picking up where we left off—wherever that was.

  “I feel OK, I guess. A bit strange.” How do you tell someone you just met that you feel nothing? There’s no name tag on his lab coat so I can't tell if Charles is his first name or last. “What’s your full name?”

  “Whoops, sorry about that,” he says with the spoon sticking out of his mouth. He lifts my hand from the bed and shakes it jokingly. “Thomas Charles. Pleased to meet you…again.”

  He has a playful quality to him, a clever sort of mischief that lights up his face. The longer I look at him, the more I feel like laughing. “You have two surnames. I like that.”

  “You say that all the time,” he says.

  “I do?”

  “Yeah. Weird. Think we should call Patel back in? I hear he’s taking notes on every little thing that comes up with you.”

  “Oh God, no. Please don’t.”

  Thomas carefully moves the hair from the side of my face. “How's that jaw healing up? Looks brutal.” He holds up the container of ice cream. “Don't be shy. I've seen you wolf down a whole pint of this stuff during PMS week. Sometimes two.”

  I feel my cheeks redden. “We sound awfully familiar then.”

  “I wasn’t trying to embarrass you, Audrey.”

  I wrinkle my nose at him. “It would be OK if you didn’t call me that.”

  “Why?” he asks with his mouth full.

  “I don't know. It makes me uneasy, I guess, because I don't remember who I am and Audrey sounds like a name for someone cold and uppity.”

  “Watch it. That's my main girl you're talking about. The Audrey I know is none of those things. But confusion is pretty normal with a brain injury like yours.”

  “I don’t feel confused. I feel like everyone else is confused.”

  “Right,” Thomas says sarcastically. “Confusion, mood swings, emotional irritability—all normal.”

  “So you’re saying I’m irritable?”

  He tries to hold back a smile. “Now you’re sounding like yourself.”

  We talk about him for a while, about his childhood in Chicago and how he’s known Jason and me since they started medical school. He tells me that everything I need to know about him can be explained by three simple facts: he’s an only child, unnaturally obsessed with college basketball, and he’s never had a cavity.

  I laugh. “How’s that last one relevant?”

  “It says a lot about a person. Think about it for a while.” He smiles. “At least it’ll give you something to do later.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “So how are you holding up? Truthfully, I mean. I’m not going to record your answers like Patel.”

  “Not to insult you, but I’d love to have a visitor who doesn’t know that giving me personal information could debilitate me. That way I can see for myself what bothers me and what doesn’t.”

  Thomas sighs. “Poor girl, surrounded by doctors. How about this…I’ll give you a few of my own memories and opinions.”

  “Which are?”

  “You’re one of the best people I’ve ever known. You have your flaws like anyone else, but you’re generous and compassionate. You think you’re hilarious because you make me laugh a lot, but most of the time I’m actually laughing at you. You’re an amazing cook, an awesome mom, and a trusted friend. What can I say… You take care of us. You're the glue.”

  “The glue?”

  “Yeah, that holds us all together.”

  “Us?”

  “Jason and Daisy and me,” he says with a shrug, as if it’s obvious information. “You guys are my family.”

  “You don't have a wife?”

  “Nah.” He steals a chunk of chocolate off my spoon and pops it into his mouth. “All the best ones are taken.”

  “We’re your family? So we…spend a lot of time together?”

  “Yeah, a lot of the doctors here are on seven-day rotations. Seven days round-the-clock here at the hospital and seven days at home. Long ago I decided to start my shift while Jason was on day three or four. That way I get half the week here with him, and I spend the other half with you since he's not home. Then while I'm here, he's home, and you only have three days alone per rotation.”

  “You schedule your shifts to be with us?” I ask.

  “Yup. You and Crazy Daisy.”

  I look at him suspiciously.

  He narrows his eyes and nods slowly. “Daisy…your child? My goddaughter? Sometimes I call her Crazy Daisy, sometimes Lazy Daisy. Depends on the mood.”

  “No, I mean it’s sweet, but…”

  “Oh, yeah,” he says with a laugh. “Now that I hear myself say it, the living arrangements might sound strange to someone who doesn’t know our situation. It works for us, though.”

  “What situation?” I lower my voice to a whisper. “Are we like all…together?”

  He nearly chokes on his ice cream. “Wow, this brain damage thing is gonna be a lot of fun.” He smiles and tries to talk without laughing. “No, we aren’t all together, you lunatic. I have a house, but I stay at yours a lot—in my own room, before you jump to any conclusions. You hate being alone; that’s how it started. But now it works for all of us. Jason’s the lucky guy who
found you first, so I get you as a best friend.”

  I look at him warily. I know I have a head injury, but that arrangement would sound weird to me regardless.

  “Don’t worry,” he says with a grin. “I manage to control myself. We hang out, watch movies. You bake a lot of desserts that we deliver to nursing homes. I've been teaching you to play golf—which you’re terrible at, by the way—and you get me to play board games more than a grown man should. We built you a vegetable garden recently. Daisy and I have been working on a killer scarecrow to keep the deer from eating everything, even though you tell us it isn't going to stop them.”

  “It won’t.”

  Thomas raises an eyebrow. “Huh. I heard you remember stuff about gardening even though you don’t remember being a gardener. That’s messed up.” He fishes around in his pocket for a peppermint drop, pops it in his mouth, and dramatically tosses the wrapper into the garbage can as if taking a jump shot. “God, I wanna smoke right now. But you've got me chomping these things every ten minutes to stop me.”

  “I do?”

  “Yeah, you gave me until the new year to quit and then you stepped in. Back in March you were doing my laundry and found a pack. That was it. Total healthy overhaul for the last two months. You forced me to exercise and eat better, inspected my car for signs of smoking. I didn’t want to say this before, but you're kind of a pain in the ass, kid.”

  “You’d think a doctor would know how to keep himself healthy.”

  “That's a common line of yours. You even started packing me lunches since, according to you, all I live on during my shifts are peppermints and coffee.”

  Peppermints and coffee. As soon as the words leave his mouth, I have a vision of staring up at the night sky, strapped to a gurney. Someone leans in smelling of peppermints and coffee.

  Oh my God, do you know who this is? Audrey. Oh God.

  A chill runs through me. “You were there. It was you, wasn’t it? When they took me off the helicopter.”

  He looks down at the floor. “Yeah, that was me. I can't believe you remember that.”

  “You were running and pushing me on the stretcher. You sounded so scared. You thought her daughter was in the car, didn’t you?”