​Yesterday, Eric, Nathan, and I went to a friend’s birthday party. I’d had an unexpected (minor) seizure more than a month ago, and the neurologist had told us that it could be triggered by lack of sleep. That’s why he prescribed a “mild” sedative that had a pile of side effects, drowsiness and tiredness among them. But I resolved to ignore the tiredness and go anyway;  she had turned fifty, and fiftieth birthdays only happen once in a lifetime.
It was the first COVID party we attended. It took place in the garden, so there was enough room to keep the prescribed distance, and all participants – both hosts and guests – wore masks. The hostess (a mutual friend) served drinks, and there was a plan to wash the glasses once the party ended. Strangely enough, what would have prompted a mix of criticism and approval before my injury, reassured me after it. COVID scares me: I’m scared of getting seizures triggered by the fever, one of the symptoms of the disease; of reliving all the emotions stirred by my trips back and forth to the hospital and my stays there; of the increase of my weakness and helplessness; and, certainly (and irrationally), of death.
Whether because I felt reassured or because the weather was mild – stars appeared one after the other in the clear sky -  I had a lot fun. There were plenty of friendly, interesting guests, and I enjoyed the conversation and the music (performed by two musician friends of the friend who had invited us).
The evening turned into night without my noticing. Suddenly, I felt very tired, and told Eric to push me home. A mix of tiredness and happiness accompanied me all along the (short) way there. Once he, Nathan, and I got in, Eric gave me my meds, helped me through my nightly routine, and kissed me good night.
These are my favorite parties: exciting, fun, and full of people I would like to get to know. That’s why ignoring my tiredness was worthwhile.

​On March 23rd, 2018, my head started to break. First the process was gradual, then it picked pace, dragging me down the memory hole. It took me a long time to restore my connection with myself. Now, with the lingering part of my brain, I have to pick up the pieces of my skull bit by bit, and slowly and carefully put them back together again, unlike the King’s horses and men, who tried and failed with poor, shattered Humpty Dumpty in that old Mother Goose song.
It’s like working on a jigsaw puzzle, making sure that every bone piece fits into each other. And some day, I’ll have a smooth skull that will look like new. Yet, the cracks will always remain invisible to the eye but visible to the eyes of my imagination and dreams. That’s why, when darkness comes, it brings a new, unfamiliar feeling –  a vague fear.
Perhaps the day will come when seizures will be rare; when I’ll be able to speak more clearly, and drink without coughing, and move my arm, and open and shut my fingers with ease, and walk (with the help of a cane, but walk in any case); and when fear will be impossible to evoke. Perhaps the day will come when my skull cracks will be invisible to me.

​When I try to place an event in the calendar within the stretch of time that goes from the bleeding of my first hemangioma to the present, all the months and years are jumbled up in my brain. I have (what I think it is) quite a distinct memory of it: I can name and picture the person involved and recall our exchange; I can tell if the days were sunny or cold; and I know if it took place in the hospital, the facility, or a doctor’s office. But I don’t know if it happened before or after my first operation, and I can’t mention the year. I remember eating in our backyard with friends who’d come visit and feeling the warmth of the morning, but can’t tell if it was summer or fall.
It’s as if I had a huge disorder of memories impossible to reorganize; as if events were heaped up like a tangled skein and I were unable to untangle it. I don’t know when I went to my internist and saw the neurologist; when I was waiting to be operated, and when the doctors took out the stitches. I asked questions and received a lot of useful information, and yet I still need answers.
I feel urged to place events in every box in the calendar, and this urge unsettles me – I won’t feel good until all these boxes are filled. It reminds me of my youth, when my unsuccessful attempt to untangle a necklace that had been stored deep down a jewelry box would frustrate and anger me, and I would throw the necklace on the floor and walk away. But nowadays I’m more stubborn and patient; if I can reorganize events in the calendar and fill all the boxes, I’ll restore my memory. And if my memory is restored, I’ll get my life back.

​I had a brain injury and, since I had it, I’m still suffering seizures and have to persist doing my speech, arm, hand, and walking exercises to achieve a slow progress. But of the two of us, Eric has suffered the most.
When I was home after my discharge, he had to deal with my confusion, that is, with my misunderstandings, faulty memory, and yelling. He would work long days and, besides, had to do all the things I had done around the house and no longer could do: cook, clean, do the small shopping (he’d gone at Trader Joe’s to do the big one), and take care of Nathan’s needs. And while he was doing them, he would constantly feel the sword of Damocles over his head; the same questions would run over and over in his mind: what would happen to the household if he got sick? Who would bring money every day? Who would take care of me? Who would bring the money to pay the nurse aid agency? Who would make my anti-seizure meds on time and ensure I was never alone when I did have a seizure? Who would prepare and give me enough food so that I gained the weight I needed to gain? (At that time, I was weighing eighty-seven pounds.)
He always says he can’t know what I experienced during my coma and what I’m experiencing now. But I can’t know what he experienced and is experiencing. I can’t know what it means to have a loved one who is on the verge of death. I can’t know what it means to have the entire weight of your family’s survival on your shoulders; to feel that the full responsibility for your family’s financial support lies on your hands. I can’t know what it means not to be able to share your innermost fears and thoughts with the person who’s closest to you because you’re concerned about her stress levels and her brain’s ability to heal, but you’re forced to hear hers as well as her doubts and despondency, and then comfort and encourage her.   
I faced near-death situations. I suffered loneliness, pain, and dread. I’m having to live with the memories and after-effects of my injury.  But my past and present experiences are nothing like Eric’s.

​Last Sunday, Eric, Nathan, and I had a Zoom meeting with my brothers and their families, and my mother. Suddenly, in the middle of a lively conversation, Eric said, “You know? Judy walked on her own today from the dining room to the kitchen and back, and didn’t fall even once.” As soon as he finished, I felt like crying.
Why would that happen to me time and time again? Why would my eyes tear up whenever I hear or tell this story? Perhaps it’s because walking is so important to me; because if I’m able to walk on my own, supporting myself with a cane for I have recovered my self-confidence, I’ll stop lying in bed; because my memories of lying in bed right after my discharge are so powerful.
Lying in bed meant being powerless, while walking meant being victorious against an enemy who kept me imprisoned inside an immobile body. Walking meant being able to go wherever I wanted. It meant revisiting places I associated with leisure and fun (though this meaning has changed today because COVID has made those places and activities disappear). Walking meant being able to reach the door, open it, and walk on the sidewalk. Walking meant freedom.

​This 21st, I didn’t feel like celebrating my birthday; the rules were restricted on April, and it wouldn’t be that enjoyable to have people wearing masks and sitting six feet apart. So, we ended up having three parties instead: a celebration on Zoom with my side of the family (my two brothers and their families, and my mother) on the afternoon of the 21st; just the three of us on that evening; and with four friends on the deck on the 23rd.
They each brought a fruit salad made with fruits of the season, a yummy smoothie, and a cheesecake, and we chatted away until the sun set. Then, they sang Happy Birthday and I blew a candle that Eric was holding, we ate the cake, and it was time for me to go to bed. We sang two chants accompanied by a shruti box, and when we finished, Eric and I said our good-byes.
 I had three small parties instead of a big one, but I felt as happy and fulfilled and grateful as if I had had a big one. And I got simple presents from Eric and Nathan, Eric’s side of the family, and my friends, but they warmed my heart as much as if I’d gotten many elaborate ones.
I can’t put a name to it, but my whole body feels enveloped in a light, soft blanket that will stay there for me so I can bring it a little closer whenever I need to.

​ Whenever I have a Kindle or a pen in my hand or am looking at a computer screen, I feel (illogically) angry: while I can read poetry and essays from any time in history and enjoy the thoughts they encourage in me; while I take pleasure in researching and writing, and in translating from practically any language into English or Spanish, I have to ask help to open a juice box and to be handed anything that’s out of my reach, and I have to wheel myself to go wherever I need to go. How come if my brain can travel anywhere, my legs can’t? How come if my brain has the power of thought, imagination, and problem-solving, my arms can’t reach and my hands can’t open?
But then I remember that time when I was quite younger than I am now and used to walk the streets of Buenos Aires, the Argentinean city where I grew up. I would see a person in a wheel chair, and that chair was pushed by someone else – a spouse, a parent, or a caregiver. The person’s legs looked thin and weak. Their bent hand showed stiff fingers. Their head was tilted to the right, and their face, fixed in a smile. And I would pass by them or let them pass by without more than a glance, trying hard to avoid looking at them. And I wouldn’t wonder about their life beyond the wheelchair.

​Every day, I do exercises with my left leg to strengthen my muscles. Each exercise is geared to a particular muscle in my leg to prepare it for walking. I have to make my quadriceps stronger so that I can lock my knee –  if I can lock my knee and keep it locked, I’ll be able to lift my right leg without falling. I have to have a stronger shin so that I can flex my foot, and then I’ll be able to step with my heel, and then I’ll be able to lock my knee and lift my right leg. I need a stronger iliopsoas to be able to step with a straight left foot, so that I can keep my balance.
Every time I lock my left knee, every time I flex my left foot, every time I rotate my left leg, it takes me time and effort. Contrariwise, every time I lift my right leg, flex my right foot, or rotate my right leg, I do it effortlessly, practically without a thought.
Every time I do my exercises, I’m faced with the differences between my legs; with the magnitude of the obstacle standing before me. Every time I do my exercises, I’m reminded of the differences I found after my injury – I couldn’t wiggle my left toes, I couldn’t flex my left foot, and I couldn’t lift my left leg, all things I could easily do with my right limb. Every time I do my exercises I’m filled with anger and frustration toward chance; toward the cards I was dealt with. And there’s nothing to do but to continue doing my exercises with a smile.

​Randomly, without knowing, I let my fingers travel across my head and throat. They run through my hair, their tips lightly feeling the hills on my scalp. Then, they cross the crater in my temple to climb down my throat and reach the scar buried inside it (it hurts when they touch it). This lunar landscape is the evidence of what happened to me – my blood burst into my brain and nearly flooded it. The surgeon’s team spent a month trying to rescue it.
This landscape fills the gap in my memory. It tells me that something happened, something I only remember through others’ memories. When I feel it, I tell myself that something brought me here today; that something diverted the course of my life. And I tell myself that I will make the best of it no matter what – my tiredness, and the upcoming night that will bring fear along with it. I will keep sailing along despite the unpredictability of my destination. I will keep sailing because Eric tells me that he’ll sail along with me; because we’re in for the long haul.