When the events surrounding my injury come to mind (the stay in the hospital; the surgery; the stay in the rehab center; the discharge; and the bout of seizures and second stay in the hospital) my memories are either erroneous or vague. I have images of my second stay in the hospital. I see myself lying in a mat in a wide room divided by short curtains that let me see everything going on around me. A group of nurses assigned to that room were taking shifts. I see them walk from patient to patient responding to their call. When I underwent the new surgery in May 2022, I was transferred from the recovery room to a private room. As it was the habit in the hospital, the nurse who took the shift introduced himself to me. I recognized the name: You were my nurse a long time ago, I said. And I told him that he had been very kind to me: I was so scared I would get another seizure, and he had been very patient and supportive. He smiled and nodded. Then it dawned on me that my stay after the reiteration of the attacks wasn’t in a wide, collective room, but in a private one; despite their detailed clarity, my memories were incorrect.
Other times, I have reminiscences of my stay at the rehab center. I vaguely remember that a Jewish orthodox nurse (I think he was a nurse) approached me and talked to me. I remember nothing of the content of his speech, just his accent and that he interspersed words in Yiddish. And I remember only snippets of green in the garden and shadows in the pergola where I sat with Eric. I remember begging him not to go: I was fearful and confused.
But there are two constant reminders of my injury: a hollow section on my head that hurts at the touch and a difficulty in swallowing my saliva. My saliva starts increasing despite my efforts to swallow it, to the point that it makes me cough. No matter how I try to contract my swallowing muscles, it keeps increasing, and then I succeed. The fear of drowning is the return of a bodily memory embedded in my archaic brain – bubbling saliva flowed from my lips, as Eric tells me.
The hollow section is a consequence of the replacement of my temporal bone with a bone plate. When they took away the bone to let the blood flow and thus eliminate the swelling of my brain, they had to put a bone plate in its stead. I have two constant reminders of my injury: a hollow, painful side on my head, and an irrational fear of drowning in my saliva.
Other times, I have reminiscences of my stay at the rehab center. I vaguely remember that a Jewish orthodox nurse (I think he was a nurse) approached me and talked to me. I remember nothing of the content of his speech, just his accent and that he interspersed words in Yiddish. And I remember only snippets of green in the garden and shadows in the pergola where I sat with Eric. I remember begging him not to go: I was fearful and confused.
But there are two constant reminders of my injury: a hollow section on my head that hurts at the touch and a difficulty in swallowing my saliva. My saliva starts increasing despite my efforts to swallow it, to the point that it makes me cough. No matter how I try to contract my swallowing muscles, it keeps increasing, and then I succeed. The fear of drowning is the return of a bodily memory embedded in my archaic brain – bubbling saliva flowed from my lips, as Eric tells me.
The hollow section is a consequence of the replacement of my temporal bone with a bone plate. When they took away the bone to let the blood flow and thus eliminate the swelling of my brain, they had to put a bone plate in its stead. I have two constant reminders of my injury: a hollow, painful side on my head, and an irrational fear of drowning in my saliva.
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