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:    Wash Face and Hands

                                                    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?