Me Again Read Online Free PDF
Author: Keith Cronin
Tags: Humor, Fiction, Women's Fiction, Relationships, Memory, recovery, self-discovery, Amnesia, sara gruen, stroke
you’re back. We really missed you.”
I wasn’t sure who she meant by we . But at that point I wasn’t sure about much of anything.
After Victoria left, I looked at my notepad to review my side of the conversation, taking advantage of the instant replay feature inherent to this form of communication. My eyes fixed on one sentence.
I’LL BE FINE.
Yet another thing I wasn’t so sure about.
Chapter 5
I CLOSED MY EYES and started to drift off. I know, you’d think after six years in a coma, I’d have had my fill of sleep, but I still found it necessary to nap frequently. Doctors assured me that as my strength increased, my need for so much sleep would abate.
But like everything else they told me, there was a certain lack of conviction to their words. Some of the best medical minds in the country had determined that I would never awaken from my coma, so I think my return to consciousness had shaken my doctors’ professional confidence, leaving them groping for explanations. A miracle – that’s the word they resorted to most frequently, although some preferred the more scientific-sounding medical miracle , perhaps because the term implied that their medical efforts revived me. But they didn’t.
They did sustain me; I don’t deny that. The comatose are not big participants in life, and require a lot of attention and effort from others in the areas of feeding, hygiene, and waste management, to name a few. For this, I had several hospitals and insurance companies to thank. But as far as me waking up was concerned, nobody had really that figured out, so I tended to consider my doctors’ predictions with some degree of skepticism.
At any rate, just as I felt myself falling into that feeling of increased gravity that precedes sleep, I heard a man clear his throat. Startled, I fought through a haze of semi-consciousness and opened my eyes to see a blurry figure standing in the doorway. I reached for my glasses.
“Jonny?” the man said, stepping tentatively closer. As he came into focus I realized I recognized him, which was something I couldn’t say about very many people. I recognized him, but I had no memory of him – that was strange. Then I realized how I recognized him. My parents had been showing me photo albums when they visited, in an effort to jog my memory. That’s where I had seen this man. That meant this had to be –
“Teddy?” I asked.
The man smiled, then came closer. “Jesus, Jonny – I was afraid you maybe didn’t remember me. I mean, Mom and Dad said you’d forgotten a lot of stuff. But I was hoping to God you hadn’t forgotten your little brother.”
Teddy leaned down, offering me his hand.
“How ya doin’, bro?” he asked, crushing my hand in his.
“Hi,” I said. Okay, so today wasn’t my day for clever conversation.
Teddy let go of my hand and plopped into the chair next to my bed.
“Man, it’s good to see you,” he said. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
I groped for my notepad and went through the familiar litany of asking if I could write rather than talk.
Scanning the note I showed him, he said, “Sure, bro. That’s cool. Whatever works for you.” Then he scowled at me. “You can hear me okay, right? I mean, you don’t need me to write, too, do you?”
I shook my head and tried to smile. I was getting better at smiling – it was something I’d been practicing in the mirror. Smiling seemed to put the people around me more at ease. My condition caused most of them to approach me with a level of exaggerated diplomacy that attempted to ignore all the ways in which I was not quite up to snuff. I think one of the main differences between my kind of brain damage and mental retardation is that at least I was aware of people’s discomfort with my plight. But I’m not sure I’d call this an advantage.
I decided to take the lead, and wrote SO WHAT’S NEW?
I reflected that literally anything he might say in response would qualify. Sort of like
I wasn’t sure who she meant by we . But at that point I wasn’t sure about much of anything.
After Victoria left, I looked at my notepad to review my side of the conversation, taking advantage of the instant replay feature inherent to this form of communication. My eyes fixed on one sentence.
I’LL BE FINE.
Yet another thing I wasn’t so sure about.
Chapter 5
I CLOSED MY EYES and started to drift off. I know, you’d think after six years in a coma, I’d have had my fill of sleep, but I still found it necessary to nap frequently. Doctors assured me that as my strength increased, my need for so much sleep would abate.
But like everything else they told me, there was a certain lack of conviction to their words. Some of the best medical minds in the country had determined that I would never awaken from my coma, so I think my return to consciousness had shaken my doctors’ professional confidence, leaving them groping for explanations. A miracle – that’s the word they resorted to most frequently, although some preferred the more scientific-sounding medical miracle , perhaps because the term implied that their medical efforts revived me. But they didn’t.
They did sustain me; I don’t deny that. The comatose are not big participants in life, and require a lot of attention and effort from others in the areas of feeding, hygiene, and waste management, to name a few. For this, I had several hospitals and insurance companies to thank. But as far as me waking up was concerned, nobody had really that figured out, so I tended to consider my doctors’ predictions with some degree of skepticism.
At any rate, just as I felt myself falling into that feeling of increased gravity that precedes sleep, I heard a man clear his throat. Startled, I fought through a haze of semi-consciousness and opened my eyes to see a blurry figure standing in the doorway. I reached for my glasses.
“Jonny?” the man said, stepping tentatively closer. As he came into focus I realized I recognized him, which was something I couldn’t say about very many people. I recognized him, but I had no memory of him – that was strange. Then I realized how I recognized him. My parents had been showing me photo albums when they visited, in an effort to jog my memory. That’s where I had seen this man. That meant this had to be –
“Teddy?” I asked.
The man smiled, then came closer. “Jesus, Jonny – I was afraid you maybe didn’t remember me. I mean, Mom and Dad said you’d forgotten a lot of stuff. But I was hoping to God you hadn’t forgotten your little brother.”
Teddy leaned down, offering me his hand.
“How ya doin’, bro?” he asked, crushing my hand in his.
“Hi,” I said. Okay, so today wasn’t my day for clever conversation.
Teddy let go of my hand and plopped into the chair next to my bed.
“Man, it’s good to see you,” he said. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
I groped for my notepad and went through the familiar litany of asking if I could write rather than talk.
Scanning the note I showed him, he said, “Sure, bro. That’s cool. Whatever works for you.” Then he scowled at me. “You can hear me okay, right? I mean, you don’t need me to write, too, do you?”
I shook my head and tried to smile. I was getting better at smiling – it was something I’d been practicing in the mirror. Smiling seemed to put the people around me more at ease. My condition caused most of them to approach me with a level of exaggerated diplomacy that attempted to ignore all the ways in which I was not quite up to snuff. I think one of the main differences between my kind of brain damage and mental retardation is that at least I was aware of people’s discomfort with my plight. But I’m not sure I’d call this an advantage.
I decided to take the lead, and wrote SO WHAT’S NEW?
I reflected that literally anything he might say in response would qualify. Sort of like