FLIPKA

Chapter Fourteen, Part One

After Hyman’s call, a friendly doctor informed me that I’d been in the hospital for two days, and that during those two days, I’d had moments of lucidity. I did not remember them, which led me to wonder if alternate personalities had been knocked loose during the accident. My other injuries were minor: a few lacerations, bumps, and bruises. 

“Do you remember what you said yesterday?” one nurse asked. “You wanted to go to the circus.”

“No.”

“You were quite charming and funny,” said the other.

“Really?”

“A pain in the rump,” reported the doctor.

“That sounds more like me,” I chuckled. “Alas, I don’t remember any of the last two days. And sorry to say, I don’t remember you, Doctor.”

“Do you remember Ellen or Laura?” he asked, indicating the two nurses standing behind him. I sat up and looked at each of their faces. “Nope.”

Post-traumatic anterograde amnesia was the prognosis. It could go on for weeks, months even. It could be mild (simply forgetting details) or it could be severe (don’t ask). One moment you could be deeply engrossed in a murder mystery and the next, remember nothing of what you’d read. You could meet someone in the morning and forget them completely by evening. In this condition, the inflicted are doomed to have the ultimate Zen experience of living in the moment, whether they want to or not. There are drugs, of course; there are always drugs. And therapies, of course, there are always therapies. 

“Should I wear a sign or something?” I asked the doctor. “You know—OUT TO LUNCH—that sort of thing, so people won’t be upset when I forget who they are?”

“Doctor Butters—can I call you Doctor Butters?” he asked. He was an earnest sort who looked like Dennis the Menace’s father.

“Sure, why not?”

“A couple of days ago you read me the riot act for calling you ‘doctor.’”

“That was Trudy,” I laughed. “She wouldn’t have a Willy or a Sam. I’m her eighth old man, I’m ‘Enery. Enery the Eighth, I am! Second verse, same as the first!’”

“This may take a while,” Dennis the Menace’s father chuckled. “I think we’ll start her on a round of Dicsocort-a-mileathiapede for anxiety, and tell me, Dr. Butters, are you still constipated?” 

“Do you think that the two conditions might be related?” I asked facetiously.

“You’re the psychiatrist!” he laughed.

“Give me the prunes. If they bring back my short-term memory, I’ll give you the AMA citation.” That elicited a familiar laugh from the two nurses.

“I don’t think we have stewed prunes on the menu. How about a suppository?”

I stuck my tongue out at him. He got the picture. I knew what I needed: an apple for the plumbing, and a bit of juggling for the old synapses, wiggling of the disjointed dendrites, mental pushups until my brain cells felt strong enough to write on that blackboard in my brain known as long-term memory. I did not to need to be enrolled in Experiments in Chemistry 101 as the guinea pig. I needed to get out of the hospital and back to life. Not that I didn’t appreciate the efforts of the doctors or the nurses, but I have always hated hospitals.

I began my self-treatment program by making lists of random words and memorizing them backwards and forwards. Then I turned on the television and watched whatever rerun of a sixties sitcom happened to be on for fifteen minutes, shut off the aptly named boob tube and attempted to remember my list. After a few hours of self-therapy, I vainly assumed I was making excellent progress, when a stranger walked into my room expecting recognition—most likely a nurse or therapist whom I may have met during the first two days, or five minutes earlier—and my confidence was shot. This happened not once, but embarrassingly, several times. Thus progress felt painfully slow. However, by the end of the day, I was able to retain certain recent memories: the candy striper with her crisp red and white uniform who reminded me of the Swiss Miss girl, and the small army of ambulances racing to the emergency room from a very bad accident on the freeway. Little things rooted in emotional or sensory responses, but enough that I could bluff the rest. Or so I thought.