Amnesia And Real Lives
Today, I find myself in a familiar place. Some of the staff recognize me, though I don't know them, and I don't truly know myself anymore. A few months ago, in April, I underwent surgery at this very hospital. They removed my gallbladder, which I don't miss. What I do miss, however, is my memory, which seems to have been excised along with it. I vaguely recall being in my thirties; now I am forty-three.
It's acceptable to be judgmental, but only toward those deemed to have issues with drinking or other habits people try to quit on Mondays and January First—like eating.
When it comes to eating disorders, they remain shrouded in secrecy, judgment, and a lack of genuine help. They are justified, pitied, and ignored, even though everyone eats.
"Hello?" A soft voice emanates from beyond the brown door, accompanied by three gentle taps. The silver industrial handle, lacking a lock, rests slightly askew. In Saint Mary's Hospital, everything seems crooked.
I'm scrolling through Facebook when I hear the knocks, observing the seemingly perfect lives of others.
It's a doctor's voice. Doctors have
a distinct tone from nurses, and they always open the door as they say my name. Nurses, in contrast, knock and then enter softly.
"Michelle?" The door opens.
I am on day eight at Saint Mary's, Reno. I know this hospital well. From my window, four floors up and to the right, I can see the bright, glowing red LED sign spanning the emergency room entrance: Saint Mary's. I am in room 407. That's me. 407.
I know I'm a writer, but these days, I can only read music. And now I sing. I sing often and write music, even though I remember my voice isn't great.
My current stay is due to a seizure, attributed to alcohol withdrawal. I suspect this is only partly true. I had consumed only a couple of shots of vodka less than twelve hours before the violent seizure that brought me here. The seizure occurred during an AA meeting, which I attended solely so I could honestly say I did. Some people judge quickly without understanding. I know AA very well; my father and two of his brothers preached about it for decades until they died from alcohol and heroin abuse.
I've overheard nurses explaining "407" to their colleagues when a new nurse takes a night or morning shift. These conversations usually happen a few feet from my hospital bed at St. Mary's, where I lie staring at the ceiling. What repeatedly strikes me as interesting is that I could swear all these conversations have taken place in Spanish. They haven't. But they have.
I don't speak Spanish.