​I’m envisioning my time in Argentina two weeks from today and wonder if I’ll be able to manage on my own. I remember my life in Buenos Aires when I was quite younger. Back then, I was able to move around from one place to another either on foot or by bus. Buses were old and creaky, always spewing dark smelly gases. They would stop briefly on every stop and speed up after passengers got on or off. They had no wheelchair lift, and the magnetic devices that had made bus drivers’ job easier were too high for disabled people to reach them. When you met with friends at coffee shops to have a chat (a typical Argentine tradition), you could find bathrooms only up or down the stairs. I would take buses and coffees and never give it a thought. Now, more than twenty years later, I can’t think of anything else. When my publisher asked me if I wanted to have a “live” book party, the first question that came to my mind was, can the center be accessed directly, or are there stairs to reach the entrance? Can you remind me if there’s an elevator to the second floor? And I even overlooked the bathroom for disabled women.
Everything has changed since my injury. I’ve had to shift the angle from which to look at things and the questions I pose. I have to think of myself in a different way. I’m no longer able to do things that used to come naturally to me. I have to wait for somebody to push my wheelchair, as I had to do at the rehab center – until (if) I get strong enough to walk with a walker while keeping my balance and don’t get tired. Until this happens, until I’m strong enough to be able to control my muscles well enough to climb up and down the stairs and go to the “normal” women’s bathroom, I’ll keep standing outside buses, coffee shops, and museums. Like the character in the “Cafetín de Buenos Aires” tango, I’ll see everything from outside the glass window of the local coffee shop.

​I wanted to change accountants, and my friend had strongly recommended this one, so Eric and I decided to contact them. I called them up and we set a date for a meeting. Eric asked if the building was wheelchair-accessible because I’d had a brain injury, and they suggested an office that met the requirements. Finally, we had a date and an address. We showed up at the office, I in the wheelchair, and Eric pushing me. Then we sat down to discuss IRS and taxes. As the conversation progressed, I had to ask for an explanation. Eric offered it, but I didn’t understand. He tried again, but I still didn’t  understand. The accountant’s expression was sympathetic. “Poor woman,” their eyes seemed to say. So, I decided to shut up. We went back to earnings and deductions. Some days later I learned that I’d missed a fragment of the conversation, and that was the reason for my lack of understanding.
When I first woke up from my coma, my brain was still full of blood. I was very confused and had episodes of persecutory delusions. As the blood slowly reabsorbed, my confusion and delusions disappeared, but I couldn’t situate myself in a specific time; I couldn’t understand instructions; and I thought I’d heard people say something they’d never said. In short, my cognitive ability hadn’t been restored. So far. Now when I wake up, I know on what day in the month we are; I remember what people have said to me; I can maintain conversations and make appropriate remarks and I understand instructions. Does that mean I’ve recovered my cognitive ability? I don’t know. But it does mean that when people learn I had a brain injury, they shouldn’t infer that I can’t understand what I’m told, or that I need a keeper. And I should remember this admonition as well. We should treat a new person in our lives as though we hadn’t known them before, no matter their previous history. All human beings deserve respect, whatever the cause of their disability.