Life In The Slow Lane...
My photo
San Diego, CA, United States
This is a commentary about the slow lane, about the slowing of time since I suffered a severe brain injury while skateboarding with my dog. This is a blog about recovery; about our '82 VW Westfalia. It's about writing, surfing, camping, married life, bleeding ulcers that make you feel old at 32; about family, friends, and my dog Artie; it's about cruising in fourth gear, getting passed by every car and learning to appreciate every second of it.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Brain Wreck

"Clap your hands everybody...Now everybody clap your hands. We're Lambda Lambda Lambda and Omega Mu...And we come here on stage tonight to do our show for you..." After I finished singing these lines from Revenge Of The Nerds and after doing my best impression of Lamar, I caught myself. Aimee laughed and then asked if I was all right, if I was looped up on Vicodin.

"No, my voluptious vixen, my dazzling damsel, my beautiful bird, I feel the music in my soul."

"You just answered my question," she said.

She was right. Since filling my prescription to ease the sting of the thirteen staples and dozens of stitches on my head and to slow the throbbing from the right side of my face, the pain killer's affect on my personality is evident.

The highs usually show up in song. This morning I found myself singing "On Top Of Old Smokey" while staring into the bathroom mirror. The night before I sang Meatloaf's "Anything" out loud to Aimee before trying it on my dog, Artie. These are the highs when I'm dancing through the living room like Billy Elliot.

The lows are much different. There's no strength for melody, not much strength for anything. There's just enough for brief fits of rage, times when the most insignificant occurrences can set me off.

Yesterday, my mom, in town for my surgery, brought a plate of tacos to my residence on the couch.

"Remember your jaw, take small bites," she said trying to remind me about my swollen and aching jaw.

As I took my first bite, AImee told me again to take small bites. She said the one I took was too big. I snapped.

"I don't want to hear it," I yelled. "I know how to eat. I know what hurts and what doesn't. I'm the one that feels the pain, not you."

She fell silent and stared down at her computer screen. Minutes later, after I regained some of the energy lost during my outrage, I apologized.

"It's okay, I could tell you were crashing," she said.

Crashing is right. And crashing for me is unavoidable, something I can't help. Too bad for her, for my brother, and for my mom, they have to be strapped in the front seat for impact.

1 comment:

  1. I've got some Billy Elliot moves for you, BI's seen them... ask him about it. I'm glad to hear the surgery went well man, and on the worry about small things, I'm the king of that...