Scripps Mercy, Mercy, Me

Yesterday, I went back to Scripps Mercy Hospital to get my health records. Before walking in, I passed the valet area where people sat in wheelchairs waiting for their rides. I thought about the first time I arrived at Scripps by ambulance and not having a single memory of it. I don't remember medics rolling me in. I don't remember talking to nurses and doctors. Everything has been wiped clean.

Ten minutes later, with records in hand, I sat down in the lobby and read the initial reports of my injury. Doctors described me as combative but alert. They questioned whether anything happened. There were no signs of injury. I was only complaining about a minor headache. An hour later, doctors said my condition was deteriorating. And that's when they put me out.

I couldn't make it through the entire report. I wasn't emotional. I was curious. I imagined seeing Aimee and my family walk through the doors on their way to visit me. I imagined my father, near a nervous breakdown, standing at the piano singing Frank Sinatra. I thought about my mom praying in the chapel, despite the fact that she is not religious. I imagined the rest of my family witnessing it all. And, I pictured Aimee on her way to the ICU with bloodshot eyes, holding her journal and a cup of coffee.

It hurts because most of my family no longer speaks to me; my dad, my mom, or my brother.

My neurologist and my doctor both say I need to step away and concentrate on recovery, but it's hard when the brain's filter allows emotions to run wild.