“Can you tell me your name?”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“What do you remember?”

Life can be a dream, if only my precious plans would come true …

I’m … in bed covered with a thin blue sheet, the room is dark. Someone coughs and mumbles off to my right, on the other side of a fabric partition. Two nurses hover over me. One lifts my arm to check a plastic brace covering my elbow. A thin clear tube connects the brace (and, as it turns out, my heart) to a clear bag of liquid on a pole. The other nurse hands me a small cup filled with pills, and then another. “Don’t chew them this time.” She points to a tray of food next to my bed. “You haven’t touched your food from yesterday.”

Some pills look like Mentos candy, but bigger. I’m so thirsty. “Can I have something to drink?” My mouth and throat feel dry.

The nurse shakes her head. The other one produces a needle. “Arm or stomach?” Wait, what? She injects something into my belly. “Get some rest.” What time is it? Why am I even here? I’m so thirsty. I need to get out of here, away from this place.

And this sequence replays itself every single day – a fuzzy routine of pills, injections, visits from nurses and doctors, and long stretches of time alone. Alone. My mind wanders. How long have I been here? Just a day I think. Or, maybe two? Time becomes an abstraction. Boredom overwhelms. “You can watch TV” suggests one nurse. She hands me a tan box with buttons on a thick tether connected to my bed. I stare at the tiny screen on the far wall and press the buttons. Game shows in Spanish, news stations, endless channels featuring basketball games. I cycle through the channels endlessly. Why is everything so blurry. (Didn’t I use to wear glasses?) This isn’t helping. If I only had a book or my phone or someone to talk to. To pass time I play and replay cherished memories like home movies on the VCR – visiting hazy golden days, treasured experiences with people I love or at least loved … once.

Weeks later, I get answers. An accident landed me in the hospital. My skull is fractured, in several places. Bleeding in my brain. Someday I may regain my sense of smell and taste again. The neurologist I’m meeting assures me he’s seen worse. And while I came close to requiring brain surgery, I should make a full recovery in “six months give or take a year … or maybe two.” Full recovery? He admits I might not ever be 100%, more like 97% or maybe 92%. That’s a strangely specific number. What part of me have I lost forever?

The mystery of the “accident” haunts me. Amnesia is a curious thing. Following my stay at the hospital the bills appear. I learn I had my first ride in an ambulance. I was actually hospitalized for thirteen days and underwent five MRIs. I remember virtually none of this. And I still don’t what happened. Was it my fault or just some random event that could have happened to anyone?

“Take your time, your brain needs to heal,” the doctors caution. I spend what seems like months on the couch watching entire seasons of “Star Trek: Next Generation,” “The Great British Bake Off” and “Rick Steve’s Europe.” Outside the window, the dreary cold of March slowly shifts to the longer green days of May. The list of things I can’t, or shouldn’t, do is heartbreakingly long. The inertia drives me crazy. Between staring out the window, watching TV, scheduling doctor visits, and watching my bank account wither away, I take daily walks and long naps. I notice an inner silence, a quiet I’ve seldom experienced before. I’m reminded of a meditation instructors saying “Clear your mind of thoughts.” My inner voice now whispers.

Friends reach out and politely ask how I am. I have little to say beyond “I don’t know.” My brother calls me every few days. “Hey buddy! How’s the dain brammage?” For him, that joke just never gets old.

Six months later, I’ve finally returned to work. I re-learned how to drive. I’m reading for pleasure and practicing guitar scales …. again. I can finally walk into a supermarket without feeling anxious and agoraphobic. I feel stronger and more social. I feel like myself, mostly.

The taste buds are still on vacation. Sometimes I can detect saltiness or a sweet. Mostly food tastes like oatmeal. I can still appreciate the texture a crunchy potato chip or crispy green apple. At least that’s something I suppose. I try not to think about it, but I miss flavor – dark chocolate’s bitter and sweet, the frozen tang and tart of lemon sorbet, and layers of spice in a platter of greasy BBQ.

And of course, there’s my sense of smell. I could say there is nothing there anymore. That’s not entirely accurate though. Periodically, if I stand up too fast, I get a flash. What is that? Close my eyes and concentrate. Cherries, or something vaguely fruity and tart – like … cherry-flavored cough medicine maybe. There is something earthy there too – the dry dusty smell you get in an old church or attic.

And … beneath all of this a sensation beyond smell but still somehow connected to it intimately … something like the secret scent of a past love.

And … Life could be a dream … sh-boom, sh-boom.