Train of Thought
Matthew
Carlin
I remember the
first time I saw Catherine.
It was at my
friend John’s house right after graduation. She was a friend of one of my
friend’s girlfriends. We had set up in John’s garage and everybody was playing Halo
or Guitar Hero. This cute girl with long red hair was watching me murder
“Hotel California.” Her deep green eyes with tiny golden sparks in the center
got my attention.
“I bet you a Coke
I can beat you,” she smiled.
I quickly sized
her up. Cute, red hair, freckles. She had this full
sleeve of Disney tats on her left arm and a lotus blossom on her right. But it
was her eyes. I could get lost in those eyes.
“Well, I don’t
drink Coke.”
“Okay. What do
you drink?” Her mouth curved into the cutest “S” shape.
“I’m not thirsty.”
I went for broke.
“But how about a kiss if I win?” Her green eyes were sparkling now.
I saw her sizing
me up. My Metallica “Master of Puppets” t-shirt and shoulder length hair must
have passed muster.
“OK. Let’s rock.”
And we did. And
that was it. Catherine and I were inseparable after that. We played lots of
video games, of course, that being the genesis of our attraction.
“Where the fuck am I?”
“Get the doctor,
he’s waking up.” My mother’s voice, kind of a shrill panic.
I hear her quick footsteps fading away.
My
father’s voice, much softer than his usual bark, “You’re in the hospital, pal. We’re here.” He must be sick, I thought.
He doesn’t sound right.
I just forgot
what I was talking about. That’s another thing that happens. I forget a lot. Like
how to do things. I tried to make a simple bowl of soup. Open can, pour into
bowl, microwave for two minutes. While I was waiting I noticed that The
Daily Show was on. Next thing I know, a dark fog is rolling out of the
kitchen. Smoke detector blaring. Evidently the
microwave was set at two hundred, not two. Okay. Laundry
then. Set the load size and water temp. Tide, bleach,
softener. Drop in clothes. Only later did I see that my mom’s tan and
blue towels and my Levi’s had huge splotches from the bleach. That was the day
I was banned from household chores “for now.” I was only trying to help. Forget
it. Funny though, I can use my iPod and computer just like before. For some
reason, I remember how they work.
In the hospital
my parents had put up posters from home. There was a poster from The
Simpsons Movie and one from The Chronicles of Narnia. Metallica
occupied the wall just to the right of the door. Slash was positioned above the
foot of the bed.
“Here are the
pictures of Big Bear,” Mom said. “You remember our cabin and how much you love
fishing there with dad?”
No. I didn’t say
it, couldn’t crush her hope. Her voice always had this sing-song delivery, like
she was leading kindergardners in story-time. I had
been shown hundreds of pictures; vacations, friends, family members, my
high-school yearbook. Anything that would help me remember.
I see the naked anticipation in their faces. My family and the doctors watch, wait for some glimmer of recognition. Those
frazzled threads of hope that force me to lie. An honest answer is
heartbreaking and exhausting. “I don’t know” or “I can’t remember” leads to the
questions and suggestions, unrelenting, in an effort
to pry open my shattered memory with some psychic crowbar. My dad showed me
on-line that I was once in the top one hundred worldwide scores of the video
games Guitar Hero and Rock Band. That was something I did
remember.
Well, shit. I
used to do all—and I mean all—of the songs on the expert difficulty. And some
of those songs I would completely play all the way through without ever making
a mistake. That’s how I met my girlfriend. She was the first girl I ever met
who loved me, despite my never-ending geek-itude.
Another
blow-out at John’s.
Catherine and I are melting, side-by-side in the Jacuzzi.
“Dude, we gotta make a beer run,” John shouts.
“I’m not
thirsty,” I stall. John cocks his eyebrow and jerks his head in the direction
of the street. “Pussywhipped” is what that means. He
knows it gets me, and that’s why he does it.
Cat looks at me
with those eyes. “Let’s just take a swim.”
“I’ll be right
back,” I reassure her, planting a wet kiss on that sexy serpentine smile.
“You’re wasted.
Come on back to the pool, stupid.” Now those eyes are dark emerald, boring into
mine, grasping at my better judgment.
John is beeping the weak-ass horn on his rusty Nissan. Cat is pissed.
I’ll make it up to her later. I sprint to the car and shout over my shoulder,
“I’m just ridin’ shotgun!”
Shit, I got
thrown off of my train of thought. Again.
I started
thinking about John, the asshole who was driving the car, and the fact of him
causing the accident (which put me in the hospital), and he didn’t even get a
scratch. I found out recently that while I was in the hospital (where I died
three or four times), that asshole proposed to his girlfriend. And she
accepted.
So am I glad that
their happiness was born from my agony and supreme suffering?
No.
I am not at all
glad about that news.
John was my best
friend. Now he has to deal with the fact that he put me through hell. Literally.
I remember
darkness. Surrounding me. No edges. No shapes, colors
or time. An endless fog. This must be what death is
like. Panic. Silent screams rip from my non-existence.
I’m dead. I don’t feel dead and I’m not ready to be dead please God don’t let
me be dead this is freaking me out and who put out all the lights why am I here
where am I? What am I? Am I still me?
What the hell is
happening?
It seemed that
when my mind died, another thing had been born to deal with all of this
bullshit. My mind was like living with another person. Not me, but not not me. At least I was
not alone. We assessed that this was definitely not Heaven. So we settled on
Purgatory. Better than to concede the alternative.
A long time
passed before I became aware of anything but the darkness. Finally, there was
something. Static, soft and tingling, outside of myself but
throughout me. Sound. Not natural or organic,
but reassuring just the same. One sound at first, then separating into thin
fragments, distinctive (like one of those optical illusion prints where you see
a bird, and then the more you look at it, the bird devolves into a school of
fish). My new mind assessed the situation. I decided that this was, at least,
better than the endless nothing. Eventually, one sound rose
above all the others. A
voice, soft and comforting. An angel sent to rescue me from this
purgatory.
Where the fuck
am I?
“It’s all right.”
What happened?
“I’m here to take
care of you.”
Why wouldn’t she
answer my questions? I tried to speak to her through my nerves. Her tone was
calm and reassuring.
“I’m going to
change your catheter and insert your new PIC line. This won’t hurt,” my angel reassured.
Catheter? PIC line?
A new, separate
sound joined the orchestra. It sounded like air being blown through a straw
that was cracked down the side. SSSSsssssSSSssss.
Pressure,
pushing and pulling in my groin.
Jesus,
lady! You’re supposed to be an angel.
The fog lifted
little by little. Like mist slowly burning off a lake as it concedes to the
sunrise. Memory. Like flashes now.
A candle thrown down an endless well, illuminating snatches then
moving on. Sometimes there’s a trigger, like a picture or street sign.
Other times it’s random, and so fleeting. Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.
Numbers were
confusing at first. During rehab one of the therapists (I remember his name was
Gil or maybe Bill) was drilling me on flash cards; addition, subtraction,
multiplication.
My brain hurt.
Sweat covered my forehead. I wanted to
answer but nothing looked familiar. My brain decided, “Who the fuck cares about
three times seven?”
“You’re doing
great, buddy. Let’s take a break and try again.” Gil/Bill spilled out some
change from his pocket for the vending machine.
“Forty three
cents,” I croaked, nodding at the quarter, three nickels and three pennies laying on the table.
“Wow!” Digging in
his pocket he tossed some more random coins on the table in front of me.
Before the two
quarters, one dime, and two pennies even stopped vibrating I reported,
“sixty-two cents.”
I could tell he
wanted to dance or hug me or something, so I added, “Makes one hundred and five
cents.” All that without breaking a sweat. Why do I
get money when numbers and math are so confusing?
Oh, shit; I just
realized that I got thrown off of my train of thought, so we gotta get back on it.
I used to be
exceptionally talented at Guitar Hero and Rock Band. And I tried
to play it again after I got home from the hospital. I failed after like thirty
seconds...that was on the expert difficulty...so I tried it on hard...and after
another failure, I tried it on normal...and after failing yet again on
normal...I almost flipped out...but then I tried it on beginner...a difficulty
that I used to be able to play blindfolded.
Even thinking
about that makes me want to change topics.
I start thinking
about my girlfriend, Catherine. Sometimes I get stuck thinking about her. Those
sparkling emerald eyes are the only memory I can still conjure up about her. I
can only think angry thoughts about her because she is the only woman I ever
had sex with. Maybe I even loved her. I
wish I could remember. That’s why she gave up on me. I guess she came to the
hospital, saw me like that, heard the words “Coma” and “Brain Injury.” And I
never saw her again. At least I don’t remember seeing her again.
I remember music.
I can hear a few notes on the radio or my iPod and my mouth takes over. The
words come flying out from I don’t know where. The song title and artist
probably aren’t there. But the words:
“I created the
sound of madness.
Wrote
the book on pain.
Somehow, I’m
still here to explain.”
Shinedown
At least I have
music.
Wait, I just now
remembered going to see Metallica. Live, in concert. It was for my sixteenth birthday and I went
with that asshole, John. My dad drove and stayed out in the parking lot while
we saw Korn, System Of A
Down, and some other random acts before Metallica finally took the stage.
Goddamn, that was the best night. And so long ago; before my
survival re-training. You know...having to relearn all of the things
that I have to do every day to carry on a normal and happy life. Or at least a boring and shitty life.
I can dress
myself now. No buttons, snaps, or zippers. My fingers know what to do but they
won’t fucking do their duty. Pull-on t-shirts, sweat
pants or pajama bottoms. Socks are the hardest. Sometimes I have to lie down on
the bed because if I bend down to put them on I tip over. Velcro-strap shoes are good.
My fucking hands
sabotage me at every turn. Each finger has a mind of its own and they’re never
in agreement. I reach for my drink. Those idiots clench and fight for
supremacy, my arm jerks but I manage to hold on. Just as the glass is up to my
mouth my fingers riot again and I’m soaked. They jam my toothbrush, cruelly
gouging cheeks and gums. Lit cigarettes
are dropped, food flung from forks (spoons are better – blunt), I don’t think
I’ll ever hold a pen again. This mutiny can be defeated for short bursts when
I’m writing, on the computer. I type using just my index fingers. I still try
video games. Walking is the hardest. I walk like an old man; hunched over a
metal frame, calculating each step, gentle inclines morphing into steep grades
right before my eyes. My body has it in for me, but my mind tells me to keep
going.
I can recite my
new “history” because I’ve heard it so many times. I was in a car accident. I have a Diffuse
Traumatic Brain Injury. That means my brain is like swiss cheese so there are a lot of small areas
damaged, some more than others. My memory was wiped clean. Almost.
If anyone asks me about what my favorite
movies/actors/activities are, I pick out something, anything that will answer
the question that I am asked. There are enough clues around me like our
video library, the People magazine on the coffee table, stuff like that.
Faking it is pretty simple. Sometimes there are memories. Other times, flickers
of recognition. We drive past the orthodontist’s office. I know the inside is
painted a pale green and smells like spearmint. What is the doctor’s name?
Familiar faces
everywhere. I don’t remember any of the names or where I know them from. Faint
occurrences of familiarity give me a lifeline to cling to. Like a starving
animal I pounce on those as evidence that, yes, my mind is there, my memory is
coming back. See? I’m getting better. But not really. Lying is my only self defense.
My mom tries to
keep me on track. “I made a little list for you to follow in the mornings,” she
smiled hopefully. She’s all about lists.
The bathroom list:
Brush Teeth
Deodorant
Comb Hair
Check Yourself in the Mirror
“There are only
four things on it so you can check yourself before you leave the house.”
I review the
latest list.
The bedroom list: Shoes
Glasses
Watch
Turn off light
When was the last
time you needed a list to remind you to put on shoes or brush your teeth? My
brain is so foggy that even the lists are a challenge. But I manage.
I refer to myself
as “MD.” It does not mean “medical doctor”; it means “Memory Deficit.” That’s
what the experts call it. Deficit. Like
being overdrawn at the bank. Like not having any real memory of the past
or even yesterday is just an “inconvenience.” You try it some time. Living with this new brain has earned me an
advanced degree in survival.
And that’s how I
am still alive today, trying to tell you my true story. This isn’t a story.
It’s my autobiography. It’s my whole, short life. It’s taking me a
long-fucking-time to get what used to be my normal life back. And I’ll still be
trying to get better, up until the day I actually die. I’ve learned that life
is like a deck of cards. Sometimes you get the Queen of Hearts. I had
Catherine. And sometimes you get the Two of Clubs.But
you’ve got to play the cards that you’re dealt, even when the deck’s stacked
against you.
Now what the
fuck was I writing about?