The one thing my braincan’tseem to figure out, though, is who the fuck I am.
As I’m offloaded into a wheelchair at the entrance to the hospital, I reflect on what I’ve learned after spending mostof yesterday on the internet researching Trevor Criss. As my discoveries triggered nothing, my quest to find out who I am turned out to be more frustrating than helpful.
I got a few hits concerning college and medical degrees. Another hit about ownership of the coffee shop Colonel Sharp told me about. There were some links to Dawn and Chuck Criss since the last name is so unique.
Other than that, he—uh…I… don’t seem to have engaged much on social media. I did find an Instagram account, but it was set to private so I can’t see any posts. There was no picture of a person, just an old cherry-red Dodge Charger.
Ava Criss seems to have a more active social media presence. Her accounts had been set to private as well, so I couldn’t see much, but there were many pictures she’d been tagged in by others. She’s beautiful, I’ll give her that. Long honey-brown hair, striking light-brown eyes, and a very friendly smile.
I came across a few photos of us. Images that I didn’t even realize were us until I thought about it and looked at myself in the mirror. The pictures paint a story of a happy, dedicated couple. So how come I felt nothing when I looked at them?
And that’s the problem—there was no spark of recognition, no emotional connection. I might as well have been looking at pictures of complete strangers. Because that’s what she is to me. What I am to myself.
Maybe when I see her in person, hear her voice, it will all come back. That’s what the doctors in Germany are hoping.
Being one myself—a fact that still blows my mind—I know all TBIs can be different. There is no specific timeline for how they heal. It could be weeks or months. And the amnesia, which is most likely temporary, could abate at any given time. Memories could come back all at once, or slowly over time. There’s just so much we still don’t know about the human brain.
I shake my head. I know all this shit, I just don’t knowhowI know it.
As I’m wheeled through the hospital, I think of the one public social media account that gave me more information than all the others. The one for her coffee shop—The Criss Coffee Corner. Photos of Ava out front, behind the counter, interacting with others. Pictures of Dawn and Chuck Criss, the original owners. Snapshots that included me that I have no recollection of whatsoever.
“Major Criss?”
“Dr. Criss?”
“Trevor?”
The orderly who pushed my wheelchair into the hospital room touches my shoulder. “There’s someone here for you.”
Finally, I look back at the doorway realizing I haven’t yet learned to respond to my name. In Germany, I stopped asking people not to call me Major or Doctor when it dawned on me that when they still called me plain old Trevor, I didn’t associate with that either so what was the point.
“Sorry, what?” I ask.
“I’m your nurse, Kate.”
I raise a brow at the attractive blonde. “Not Major or Lieutenant or Brigadier General?”
Okay, it seems I have a sense of humor.
She chuckles. “I’m a civilian nurse. So Kate is fine. Your wife and parents have arrived.”
“They’rehere?”
I try to figure out how I feel about that. Am I about to get my memory back when the three people I was probably closest to walk through that door? Or am I going to see them and feel nothing as I’m relegated to remain in this purgatory.
“They arrived even before you did. They must be eager to see you. I’ve been told what happened. I can’t imagine what theymust have gone through.” She walks across the room. “Let’s get you situated in bed and hooked up to the monitors. The doctor will want to assess you before any visitors are allowed.”
I stand with a little help and get into bed. The orderly leaves as Kate goes about her job.
She puts the blood pressure cuff on my arm. “You should know you’ve already been established as somewhat of a celebrity around here.”
“Why exactly?”
“You’re the man who came back from the dead. The doctor who seems to have retained all his medical knowledge but knows nothing of his personal past. The sole survivor of a terrible accident in a combat zone. Dr. Criss, your name has been all over the news. If you’d been transferred to any other hospital, there probably would’ve been reporters waiting in the ambulance bay when you arrived. Walter Reed is protected by security gates.”
“Jesus, really? All that has been on the news?”
“Not the medical details. Just news of the mistaken identity and the accident. But you know how things go. Someone somewhere will talk to a reporter and then the whole world will know about your amnesia. Hopefully you’ll be back to normal by then and can simply bask in the limelight.”
