People have kindly prodded us to tell our story. Most of what we reveal concerning our situation hasn’t been too in depth. Sometimes it’s easier to write about books (hence our book reviews) than the daily realities laced with vulnerabilities. Even still, everything is still so raw. Time passes at a normal pace for many in our lives. But for us, time seems to stand still. Memories that occurred a year plus ago feel as if it just happened last month. Many are memories both Michael and I have had to suppress.
Right now, I’m left with scraps of memories that are not yet whole. Like a quilt not yet sown, each scrap holds a unique pattern- but it hasn’t been mended.
The overarching story beautifully told in a tapestry of fabric is simply pieces of old team shirts, baby blankets, and the like.
That’s what I’m left with now. Fractions of stories that were ripped and in need of mending…
The first seizure I had lasted a few minutes, and although my husband was terrified, I merely thought the incident was a fluke. I encouraged him to go out the next day as if nothing happened. He was resistant, but I told him everything was fine. That night, we proceeded with TV viewing. Bright lights emanated from the screen. I tried to turn my face towards the unmoving coffee table for preventative measures. It didn’t work. The seizures kicked in full gear. Drool slipped from my mouth and unto my chin. My face went flat; I was not able to speak, then I would “come out of it” only to return to the other world on a repeat cycle. My mom had to strip my pants off of me so I could go to the bathroom. I couldn’t do it on my own. And so began the decline to dependency.
There was certainly turbulence when I went to the West Coast for treatment, but I at least had comradery from others who faced similar health obstacles. I could freely go about with speech impairment, ticing, and the like and not care because, well, no one knew me. There was a semblance of freedom. I can’t describe in words right now the depression I faced when I came back home. The issue I had with one of my doctors taking me on, the stress of their own frenzied panic in seeing my condition. I didn’t think life could become more unstable, but it did.
The meds affected me to the point where I would blast my mouth. Words would fly out of my mouth without being filtered through thought. Embarrassment would arise later when my husband, Michael would repeat what I had said. I felt like my brain and mind had been stolen by infirmity and a haze of drugs. When was I ever going to feel like me again? Would I ever feel comfortable around people? Isolation hurts, but so does going out and realizing the old me with careful speech and controlled movements was presently dead.
There were some sweet souls who would give money simply to lighten our burdens with presents. Michael would purchase something for me, and offer it on my lap complete with wrapping paper. He would be awaiting my smile from the surprise. A series of snapshots would ensue. Click.
So many memories are scattered. Ripped cloth just waiting to be mended into a mosaic of cloth to be remembered. But right now, they’re just scattered cloths of memories waiting for the right time to be mended.