My stomach flips violently as I slam the brakes on trying to remember. At the same time, my pulse spikes, my body going rigid with something like shock or fear. As if protecting me from further damage, the memory dissolves before I can hold onto it.
“No,” I say at last, breath hitching. Is it a lie? Could be. If I really fell, I’d have broken bones. Right? Not just an IV in my arm and a fuzzy head and the sensation that something is really wrong, but at least I’m in the hospital where they can fix me.
Where I can besafe…
“That’s alright,” Dr. Nathan repeats. “That’s to be expected.”
It is?
Before I can ask him what he means by that—or what he thinks happened to me—he asks more questions, inputtinganswers into his tablet. Can I move my fingers? My toes? Can I follow his penlight with my eyes? Do I know what year it is? Who are the last five presidents?
Some answers come easily. I wrinkle my nose when I tell him who our current president is, then go back until I’ve named the last six national leaders. I know what year it is, and though my chest is so uncomfortable, it hurts to move any digits, I can move my fingers and toes. Anytime he asks me about myself, though, it’s like I’ve been blocked.
I can breathe.
I canlive.
I just don’t know a damn thing about who I was before I ended up in this hospital bed, and once he sees how agitated that makes me, he calls for a nurse to adjust the drip of my IV so that I can relax enough to fall back asleep.
I lose track of time.I don’t know how long I’ve been in the hospital, only that the stiffness in my entire body makes me think it’s been a while. A nurse makes sure I eat, though I’m too nauseous to choke down much. When she notices that I barely touch the plate, she mentions that I can return to the parenteral method of feeding or even use a NG tube now that I’m no longer intubated.
Do I know what any of that means? Not even a little. I guess that’s a sign that, whoever I am, I don’t have any sort of medical background because I’m so confused. Taking pity on me, she urges me to eat a little more before the doctors have to intervene again and help me eat.
Help me eat? I want to ask about that, but she’s gone before I can so that she can go and check on another patient, and whena dietary aide comes to take my empty tray, she’s different from the nurse and I don’t bother, well,botheringher about it. Same with the countless doctors, techs, nurses, and porters who come in and out of my room now that I’m conscious.
I figured I was only asleep for a few hours after I found myself in the hospital. Considering I came to with a tube down my throat, then woke up again without it, I should’ve guessed that it was longer than that. However, it isn’t until another woman enters the room that I discover how wrong I was—and just what happened to me.
She takes a seat at the side of my bed, grabbing one of the visitor chairs and resting the clipboard she came in with on her lap.
At first, I’m not sure she’s part of the hospital. She isn’t wearing scrubs or anything like the others, though I do notice the badge clipped to the bottom of her dark suit jacket. Her hair is a rich brown streaked with gray, tied in a knot at the nape of her neck. Kind hazel eyes peer out at me from behind a pair of thick glasses.
She’s wearing a careful smile that feels practiced, but isn’t necessarily fake. She clears her throat and folds her hands on top of the clipboard.
“My name is Carol,” she says, “and I’m your patient advocate. It’s my job to help patients and their families navigate the healthcare system. Do you feel up to talking with me?”
I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, but if she’s here to help me, how can I refuse? Swallowing roughly, wincing at the continued pinch, I nod.
“You were admitted to St. Luke’s Hospital six days ago,” she continues in a soft, soothing voice. “You seemed to have had a nasty fall, but you’re very fortunate in that nothing is broken. The doctors did need to help you breathe for a few days, andyou were in a medically-induced coma due to a pulmonary contusion, but you’re improving quickly in that regard.”
I blink, trying to make sense of what Carol said.
Six days.Sixdays.
That number feels wrong. There’s no way I could’ve been unconscious for six days before I was allowed to wake up… is there? And from a fall? How hard did I fall? How high up was I? I… I don’t know.
I don’tremember.
“Unfortunately, your care team is under the impression that you don’t recall the incident.” She unlaces her fingers, glancing at the clipboard. “That you don’t recall your name.”
My chest tightens, and I’m not sure that has anything to do with my… what did she call it? Pulmonary contusion. “I don’t.”
“That’s part of the reason why I was called in. Patients who present like you have usually come in to the ICU with a concussion or a TBI. Traumatic brain injury,” she explains when she sees my lost look. “Your doctors don’t think your skull is fractured, but between hitting your head and the trauma of falling from a great height, your tentative diagnosis is something they call dissociative amnesia.”
Amnesia. I knowthatword. “I lost my memory?”
“Not all of it,” Carol says. “Dissociative amnesia is usually a trauma response. It leads to the patient losing autobiographical information… like your name and age and where you were before the accident… while maintaining basic skills like language and?—”
“Knowing who the president is,” I mumble.
