“How do you feel today, Sweetie?” My Mother asked, as I came downstairs.
I hesitated, searching for the right word.
She waited patiently, as she’d been all week.
There are things about myself I’ve taken pride in, such as physical health, creativity, and learned (well, maybe forced) patience. Most of all though, throughout my life, my wit has given me the most pride. Being called “witty” is a compliment I’ve had the pleasure to enjoy on many occasions. Conversation is important to me. Looks fade, as we all eventually realize, but having a sharp mind, being able to converse…intellectualism: that’s the good stuff in life.
I’m not so sharp these last weeks. My mind is a dull knife, a cracked egg, and I struggle for words. They’re in there somewhere, but it’s as if they’re stuck in a honey pot and I have to fish through the stickiness to retrieve them. Writing these few words takes hours.
“I’m OK,” I respond. Easy answer.
She’s been here since the accident. Since the man pulling the big trailer with his big truck plowed into my little Volvo on the freeway. Since my “bell was rung” and my brain slowed and filled with thick honey.
In the ambulance I wanted to close my eyes and sleep, but they wouldn’t let me. It seemed there were countless questions, some that were easy to understand and some that were alien. I couldn’t see the paperwork I was to sign through my blurry eyes, so they pointed and I scribbled something with my shaking hand.
The pain in my head raged on.
Police officers, doctors, firefighters, and family wanted to know what happened. I tried to describe events, pains…but where were all of my words? And why couldn’t I simply sleep?
My mother fixes me plain yogurt with fresh fruit, and I eat a little bit. She tells me I should eat more. Afterward I go to shower to soak my sore, bruised body in the warm water hoping it will relax my muscles and help with the pain.
In the shower I struggle remembering if I’d washed my body already. I can’t tilt my head back properly to wash my hair through the pain. All this brings me to cry and my head to pound even more.
I’m told it will get better, and it does…slowly. Days turn into a month and so on. I try to sleep, rest as the tell me to, struggle through writing little bits at a time, and read. But mostly…I wait.