Brain On Fire: My Month Of Madness Part 15

Though he claims he could see the old me, most other people found it hard to relate. A few days later, I agreed to attend a homecoming party for one of Stephen's and my closest friends, Bryan, who had briefly returned home from Austin, Texas. When we arrived, the grill was going in Bryan's mother's backyard and adults of various ages sat around eating burgers, playing bocce ball, and chatting. As I joined the party with Stephen and his sisters, I felt the air get leeched from the room as everyone seemed to gawk at the sick girl. Though this was likely all in my mind-many of the people had no clue that I had been sick, and even more of them had never met me before-I felt as if I were the center of attention in the worst way.

Yet my friends who were there would later tell me that I seemed unnaturally happy, beaming a plastic and fixed ear-to-ear smile. Maybe that was some sort of self-preserving body armor, a mask to keep the frightening hordes at bay.

At the party, hardly anyone asked me about my hospital stay, though the people who had heard about it approached me diffidently, eyes downcast, seemingly shamed by their knowledge, however slim, of what had befallen me. To these friends, it was like losing me in plain sight while the subst.i.tute Susannah was still there to remind them of the person who I had been before. All the while, my mind encircled itself with questions: Did they hear I was in the hospital? Did they hear I was crazy? Did they hear I was in the hospital? Did they hear I was crazy? Instead of engaging, I found myself fixedly staring them down, unable to converse. Eventually I gave up trying and concentrated on eating the juicy watermelon and hamburgers cooked on the grill. Instead of engaging, I found myself fixedly staring them down, unable to converse. Eventually I gave up trying and concentrated on eating the juicy watermelon and hamburgers cooked on the grill.

But I had my savior: Stephen. People called him the "Susannah whisperer," because he seemed to sense what was unspoken. At the party, he stood by my side, never once letting me stray too far from his watchful gaze. When people who hadn't been debriefed came up to chat with me, he took the reins in the conversation, not something that the normally laid-back, California-cool Stephen did, but something that was now necessary. When I couldn't speak, he spoke for me. Like my plastic smile, Stephen became another layer in my protective armor.

At one point, an old friend, Colleen, who had heard about my hospital stay from Stephen's sister Bridget, noticed that as I ate a piece of watermelon, the red juices dribbled down my chin and onto my dress. She felt conflicted: Tell me or let it be? She didn't want to embarra.s.s me, but she didn't want to let me go on looking like a clueless child. Luckily, before she had to make the decision, Stephen wiped the watermelon juices from my chin.

After an hour at the party, I gave Stephen a look, and he nodded back knowingly. It was time to go.

My second organized social experiment occurred the last week of May at my stepbrother, David's, wedding. I was initially supposed to be a bridesmaid and had purchased the dress just before I got sick, but after I got out of the hospital the bride gently suggested that it might be best if I no longer took part in the ceremony.

Obviously, I thought then, I thought then, she's embarra.s.sed by me. she's embarra.s.sed by me.

I realize now that she was acting out of concern, but it was proof to me then that I had become a burden. Normally I was someone people wanted to include-Stephen and I had even been voted "most fun couple" at one wedding we attended prior to my illness-but now I had become a source of shame. This stung and whittled away at my fragile self-worth, which had taken such a thras.h.i.+ng over the prior months.

Still, I was determined to prove to her and the rest of the wedding party that I still "had it." I styled my hair with a straightening iron to cover up my biopsy scar and bought a bubble-gum-pink dress, while Stephen wore a mod-style suit with a skinny tie. A mere month after the reunion at Rachael's house, going to the wedding represented a significant step forward in my recovery process. I was nearly past the period where I looked and acted noticeably awry, though my face was still puffy from the steroids and my words were still faltering and largely monosyllabic. If you didn't look too closely, though, Stephen and I seemed like an ordinary hipster couple.

The ceremony took place in a manor in Hudson Valley, New York, where grapevines dangled along the gates and wildflowers bloomed as far as the eye could see. Stephen and I spent most of the party standing by the makes.h.i.+ft kitchen, where the caterers entered and exited carrying plates of hors d'oeuvres. I don't know if it was the steroids, which can cause an increase in appet.i.te, but I was ravenous.

At the beginning of the night, my mom made me promise that I would drink only one gla.s.s of wine. I all but rolled my eyes when I agreed and then went ahead and drank several flutes of champagne. If there's one thing about me that has been confirmed by my illness, it's my tenacity, or bullheadedness, or whatever else you want to call it. Even though my brain was still repairing itself and it's undoubtedly dangerous to mix alcohol with antipsychotics, I insisted on drinking. I didn't care how self-destructive it might be-this was something tangible that connected me to the "normal" Susannah. If the old Susannah had a gla.s.s of wine or two with dinner, so would this Susannah. I couldn't read, could hardly make small talk, and couldn't drive a car, but, dammit, I was going to have a few gla.s.ses of champagne at a wedding. My mother tried to stop me, but she knew she had no control over my vices: I was going to do what I pleased. Ultimately the wine represented independence, and everyone around me decided it was best not to stamp out what remained of my dignity.

When the song "Build Me Up b.u.t.tercup" came on, I even did the twist with Stephen. In my mind, I rocked the dance floor, ignoring the aches and pains in my s.h.i.+ns and the fact that I was tiring much more quickly than ever before. (I would later learn from my stepfamily, however, that instead of moving like a pro, I just looked robotic and dazed.) Despite my attempts at seeming blithe and careless, I was hyperattuned to the different ways people were treating me. Since this was a family event, the first question out of everybody's mouth was, "How are you?" It was an unanswerable question at this stage. But that wasn't the worst part. It was the falsely enthusiastic, carefully enunciated tone people used; they were talking down to me, as if I were a toddler or a very old person. It was demoralizing, but I couldn't really blame them. No one had a clue about what was going on inside my mind.

My mother, however, was proud to see me enjoying myself-that is, until another wedding guest broke into her quiet admiration.

"I'm so sorry to hear what happened to Susannah," the woman said, hugging her. My mother does not like to be touched by strangers.

"Thank you," she said, trying to keep an eye on me.

"It's so sad. She's so different. She's just completely lost her spark." At that, my mom tore her eyes from the dance floor and shot the woman a look. There had been many moments of insensitivity, but this was among the worst. "I mean," the woman continued, "do you think she'll ever get back to her old self again?"

My mom smoothed out her dress, also pink, and shouldered past the woman, saying through clenched teeth, "She's doing very well."

CHAPTER 39 WITHIN NORMAL LIMITS

Although I had already made substantial leaps in my recuperation, nonetheless for many months to come my days would revolve around the candy-colored medications that I had to take six times daily. Each week, my mother spent an hour portioning out my pills into a dispenser that was the size of a s...o...b..x top. Often it took her several tries to get the proportions right because the doses were complicated and always changing. The pillbox was divided into yellow, pink, blue, and green slots and had seven columns for each day of the week and four rows: morning, midafternoon, late afternoon, and bedtime. I was tethered to this pill dispenser.

My reliance on these pills meant I couldn't be independent, and so I loathed them. Not only were they symbols of my infantile status in my mother's home, but the pills also made me sleepy and slow. Sometimes I would just "forget" to take them (an incredibly dangerous thing to do). Because I wasn't wily enough to throw out the medication, I often left the evidence in the dispenser, which tipped off my mother, prompting her to reprimand me as she would a child. In many ways, during that recovery period at my mother's home, I a.s.sociated the pills-and the fights they engendered-with her. In a practical sense, I needed her to portion out the pills because it was far too complicated a task for me at the time. In a more emotional sense, though, I began to feel that she, like the pills, embodied my contemptible dependence. I can admit now that I was sometimes cruel to her.

"How was your day?" she would ask me after she returned home from a long day at the district's attorney's office.

"Fine," I would say coldly, without elaborating.

"What did you do all day?"

"Not much."

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

I cringe when I recall these interactions, since my mom and I had always been inseparable, and I can only imagine how much it must have hurt her. I realize that I was still holding tightly on to an amorphous grudge against her for reasons that seem so meritless now. Though the hospital was a blur, residual anger from that time remained somewhere in my subconscious. Somehow I had convinced myself that she hadn't spent enough time with me in the hospital, though this was neither fair nor true. On some level, her suffering, which she had buried so deeply, had begun to drain out of her unconsciously and onto me. The worst part was that the struggle didn't end once the hospital stay was over; now she had to live with this hostile stranger, her own daughter, who had once been one of her closest friends. But instead of sympathizing with her pain, which certainly matched and may have even surpa.s.sed my own, I took her suffering as an affront-a sign that she could not handle how flawed the sickness had made me.

She spoke at length about these feelings to Allen but, understandably, kept them hidden from my father. When my parents spoke to one another, they stuck to discussing how I was doing and hardly engaged in any personal or idle chitchat. Every two weeks, however, they reunited to bring me to Dr. Najjar at his office. Each time he would lower my dosages of steroids; next Dr. Arslan would follow suit with the antipsychotics and antianxiety medications, reducing the amounts in tandem with the changing steroid doses. These were uplifting appointments because each time I seemed to progress steadily, and my parents seemed to be getting along better.

Dr. Arslan would always ask the same question: "Out of 100, what percentage do you feel like yourself?"

Every time I answered with confidence, only my blus.h.i.+ng face betraying my inner uncertainty: "Ninety percent." Or, when I was feeling particularly a.s.sertive, "Ninety-five percent."

My father always agreed with me, even if he felt differently. But my mom would sometimes gently interject: "I would say more like 80 percent," and this was even a stretch, she would later admit.

Though recovery is clearly a relative process (you need to know where you're coming from to see how far you've gone), we would soon get an expert's view when I attended two evaluation sessions at New York University's Rusk Inst.i.tute of Rehabilitation Medicine. I was dreading the trip. Although I was clearly getting better, I didn't want proof of my continued inability to accomplish simple tasks. But my mom was adamant that I go.

I recall little from the first session because I was too exhausted to be tested. All I remember are the young psychologist's wide and friendly blue eyes. On the second visit, my mom and dad led me into the Rusk Inst.i.tute's room 315, where that same psychologist, Hilary Bertisch, led me into her office. My parents stayed in the waiting area. Dr. Bertisch would later tell me that even at this stage I seemed disconnected from my external world and that I often responded to her promptings so slowly that she wondered if I had heard her at all. In some ways, she said, my behaviors resembled the negative symptoms of schizophrenia: inexpressiveness, blankness, lack of feeling, and monotone and monosyllabic speech.

Dr. Bertisch a.s.sessed my concentration and memory by providing a letter cancellation test, in which I had to cross out certain words or letters in a normal-length newspaper article, coincidentally enough. She first asked me to cross out all the h h's. I got all of them, but it took me 94 seconds, which placed me in the borderline impaired range. Then she had me cross out all the c c's and e e's. I missed four of these, and the whole thing took me 114 seconds: borderline again. Then came the hardest part: find each use of and and, but but, and the the on the page. I remember feeling confused and constantly forgetting which words to focus on. Out of the 173, I missed 25. Anything more than 15 is considered "severely impaired." My speed, accuracy, and concentration were dismal. on the page. I remember feeling confused and constantly forgetting which words to focus on. Out of the 173, I missed 25. Anything more than 15 is considered "severely impaired." My speed, accuracy, and concentration were dismal.

She moved on to working memory, which checks the ability to hold information in your mind for a short period of time. She read aloud simple mathematical word problems, which were elementary but that I could solve only at the twenty-fifth-percentile range.

My visual working memory was even worse. Dr. Bertisch presented a picture of a shape for a few seconds and then asked me to draw it from memory. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't imagine the original shape. Here I was in the first percentile, the most severely impaired.

My ability to conjure up words from memory was also fairly poor. Dr. Bertisch repeated the same style of test that had been done in April, when Dr. Chris Morrison asked me to name fruits and vegetables, but this time Dr. Bertisch gave me a minute each to think of as many f f, a a, and s s words as I could: words as I could:

F: "Fable, fact, fiction, finger, fat, fantastic, fan, fastidious, fantasy, fart, farm"

A: "Apple, animal, after, able, an, appeal, antiquity, animosity, after, agile." (Because I had repeated "after" I got only nine.) S: "Scratch, stomach, s.h.i.+ngle, s.h.i.+t, shunt, s.e.x, sing, song, swim, summer, situation, shut"

Overall, I named 32 words in 3 minutes. Though this was a significant improvement from April, when I could name only 5 words in one minute, the average number of responses is 45.

Yet in other tasks, I had made significant progress. My verbal functioning was now "superior," in the ninety-first percentile. My verbal abstract reasoning, which was tested by using a.n.a.logies, such as "How are China and Russia related?," was in the high-average eighty-fifth percentile. And despite difficulties with basic cognitive functions, I was still capable of complex a.n.a.lytical thinking, which surprised Dr. Bertisch. On a test involving pattern recognition, I got everything correct, though it took me longer than normal to do so. I couldn't draw an octagon from a visual cue card, but I could make complex leaps in logic. Later she would tell me that the way I presented to people did not match up with what seemed to be going on internally. There was a serious disconnect, and I may have actually been more present than I appeared. I felt this divide too. Often, like at the party and the wedding just a few weeks before, I felt as if my "self" was trying to communicate with the outside world but couldn't break past the broken intermediary, my body.

At the end of our last interview, Dr. Bertisch asked me what I felt were my most pressing problems. "Problems with concentration. With my memory. Finding the right words," I told her.

This she found rea.s.suring. I had defined exactly what was wrong with me. Often those with neurological issues cannot readily identify what is the matter.47 They don't have the self-awareness to understand that they are ill. Paradoxically my ability to recognize my own weaknesses was a strength. They don't have the self-awareness to understand that they are ill. Paradoxically my ability to recognize my own weaknesses was a strength.

This explained why social situations were so rough on me: I was aware of how slow and strange I appeared to those around me, especially people who had known me before my illness. I expressed this insecurity to Dr. Bertisch, admitting that I often felt depressed and anxious in groups. She suggested individual and group cognitive rehabilitation, individual psychotherapy to address symptoms of depression and anxiety, and a young adult group.

In the end, though, I was so unsure of myself that I did none of it. In retrospect, this was a big mistake: there is a window of spontaneous healing in the brain after injury or illness, and it's best to jump at any opportunity for faster revitalization. Though it's unclear what role cognitive rehabilitation plays in the recovery from this disease, I would have likely mended more quickly had I done it. But these sessions only highlighted my inner disunity, and I was loath to continue. I never returned for a follow-up. As it was, it took me a year to even decide to track Dr. Bertisch down and get the results of this one group of tests. I didn't yet have the nerve to face how bad off I really was.

CHAPTER 40 UMBRELLA

I couldn't help but consider another hospital stay as a step backward in the march toward recovery, so when Dr. Najjar called my mother in late May to say that I needed to return to the hospital for a second round of IVIG treatment, I was despondent. I shuddered to think of the harsh lights of the hospital room, the constant interruptions of the nursing staff, and those awful preheated dinners. To get my mind off it, my father invited Stephen and me to spend the night, something we did at least once a week now, in his shady backyard, an oasis in the middle of Brooklyn Heights. We ate barbecue, drank sangria, and donned sombreros. A string of multicolored Christmas lights roped around the length of the yard, and Ryan Adams played in the background. couldn't help but consider another hospital stay as a step backward in the march toward recovery, so when Dr. Najjar called my mother in late May to say that I needed to return to the hospital for a second round of IVIG treatment, I was despondent. I shuddered to think of the harsh lights of the hospital room, the constant interruptions of the nursing staff, and those awful preheated dinners. To get my mind off it, my father invited Stephen and me to spend the night, something we did at least once a week now, in his shady backyard, an oasis in the middle of Brooklyn Heights. We ate barbecue, drank sangria, and donned sombreros. A string of multicolored Christmas lights roped around the length of the yard, and Ryan Adams played in the background.

I remained silent for a large portion of the night, as Stephen, Giselle, and my father chatted. Whenever they'd try to include me in a conversation, I shook my head and returned to unconsciously smacking my lips together.

"I'm boring. I don't have anything to say. I'm not interesting anymore," I kept repeating.

"You're anything but boring," my dad would often respond adamantly. It broke my father's heart to hear me say such things. He told me a few years later, in that same backyard and under those same strings of lights, that he would cry himself to sleep thinking of those words.

But no one, not even my father, could convince me otherwise. I was dull, no doubt about it. And being boring was perhaps the toughest adjustment to my new life. This was partially due to the antipsychotics, since the drugs I was on are known to cause drowsiness, confusion, and fatigue. Still, my broken brain itself was likely the most significant cause of my new lack of spirit. It's likely that the electrical impulses between neurons in my frontal lobes were not adequately firing, or they were misfiring and taking longer to get to their intended targets.

The frontal lobes are largely responsible for complex executive functions, prompting experts to refer to it as "the CEO."48 It only fully develops into our twenties, which tempts many experts to hypothesize that the frontal lobe's maturation is what distinguishes children from adults. But one thing is certain: the frontal lobes make us creative, human, and simply less boring. It only fully develops into our twenties, which tempts many experts to hypothesize that the frontal lobe's maturation is what distinguishes children from adults. But one thing is certain: the frontal lobes make us creative, human, and simply less boring.

(We know, horribly, what happens when the frontal lobe is impaired because of the controversial lobotomy surgeries practiced in the 1950s and 1960s. One such method, the "ice pick" lobotomy, made infamous by Rosemary Kennedy, was a procedure in which a doctor would peel back the patient's eyelid, insert a metal spike above the eyeball until it hit the top of the orbit, and then tap, tap, tap into the brain for several minutes.49 This imprecise procedure severed several frontal lobe connections, yielding results ranging from dulled emotions to childish behaviors. Some patients were even rendered completely devoid of serious thought and feeling, much like what happened to Randle McMurphy, Jack Nicholson's character in the film This imprecise procedure severed several frontal lobe connections, yielding results ranging from dulled emotions to childish behaviors. Some patients were even rendered completely devoid of serious thought and feeling, much like what happened to Randle McMurphy, Jack Nicholson's character in the film One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.) Although my frontal lobes were perhaps taking longer to repair (as some emerging research shows) than other areas, there was nevertheless improvement. In the hospital, one doctor had described my frontal lobe function as being "close to zero." I had, at the very least, improved from nothing.

By the end of dinner, I was so groggy that I put my head on the table and slept straight through the conversation until my own snores woke me up. Shaking myself awake, I headed up the steep metal staircase to the speaker dock that held my iPod. I had recently downloaded the Rihanna song "Umbrella," even though it had been out for a few years and it wasn't even necessarily my typical style of music. Now her stylized, R&B-tinged vocals wafted through the summer night.

I looked down with fondness at my father, Stephen, and Giselle and swayed to the music, suddenly filled with buoyant energy. The music blared, and I began to move my body to the beat, almost absentmindedly, until I was fully rocking out, maybe not exactly gracefully but nowhere near as stiffly and robotically as I had at the wedding a month earlier. Giselle was moved by the glow in Stephen's face when he glanced up and caught me dancing so freely. For a long time it had seemed as if I had existed in a walking coma, but now they all saw life in this awkward reggae dance.

Stephen joined me up on the steps, took me in his arms, and twirled me around, as we laughed at how silly we looked. My father and Giselle joined hands and slow-danced to the upbeat song.

CHAPTER 41 CHRONOLOGY

The brain is radically resilient; it can create new neurons and make new connections through cortical remapping, a process called neurogenesis. Our minds have the incredible capacity to both alter the strength of connections among neurons, essentially rewiring them, and create entirely new pathways. (It makes a computer, which cannot create new hardware when its system crashes, seem fixed and helpless.) This amazing malleability is called neuroplasticity. Like daffodils in the early days of spring, my neurons were resprouting receptors as the winter of the illness ebbed.

It was during that dreaded third hospital stay that my true moment of awakening occurred; I began keeping a diary, started reading again, and first expressed the desire to understand what had happened to me. Perhaps because the diary provides physical evidence of my budding self (I can literally read the thoughts of that wounded Susannah), I can in essence begin to remember what it was like to be her, unlike the earlier Susannah from those paranoid diary entries before the hospital, who was more like a figment of a shadowy memory, so distant that she might have been a character in a horror movie. Yet the person I read about in my recovery diary is childlike and prosaic, unlike that umbral pre-hospital self who could, even at her most obscured, be eerily illuminating. Yet, there are surprising similarities between this diary and the journals I kept during junior high school. In each, there's a stunning lack of insight and curiosity about myself. In place of deep thought, there are dozens of pa.s.sages dedicated to my body (weight gain in the recovery piece and lack of b.r.e.a.s.t.s in the junior high journal) and silly, petty issues of the day (hating hospital food versus fighting with frenemies). I sympathize with this vulnerable, budding Susannah, as I do that preteen version of myself, but she is still not entirely me, as I am now.

I wrote my first entry at the hospital, dated June 3, 2009, while I was receiving the second IVIG infusion. My father, who had stayed with me every morning as usual during that third hospital stay, helped me write, suggesting that I try to retrace my lost time by compiling a chronology of events from my own memory. My list began with "numbness and sleepiness" and ended with "seizure 3 in the hospital." I had nothing to record after I had bought that cappuccino in the admitting area of the hospital on March 23. In making the list I had also gone back and crammed the words "night at Dad's house" in between "seizure 2" and "seizure 3," almost as an afterthought. This line is the least legible, and with good reason: I was still uncertain and ashamed of my behavior that toxic night (as I am to this day), and it showed even in my handwriting.

My writing was still unfamiliar, but it was a far cry from the infantile notes I had made during my first hospital stay. I could now write in full sentences and even use a semicolon. But what is most telling about my list is the absence: there are no memories at all from my time in the hospital.

My father looked over the page with alarm. It was the first confirmation of my profound memory loss. But he hid his surprise and helped me add in some pieces from his own recollection, providing a more fleshed-out version of events. However, there are still clear omissions, which were both my father's and mine. The gaps are minor but telling, since memory loss can occur not only in brain injury but also with emotional trauma. No one close to me during this time had been spared.

My father indulged in this chronology entirely for my benefit, because he despised speaking of that time. His new motto had become: "To move forward, you have to leave the past behind." But Giselle would later tell me privately how hard the situation had been on him. He was a wreck. When other family members called for updates, he'd wave away the phone, certain that he would lose his hard-won composure once he heard familiar voices. My brother remembers speaking to our dad over the phone while he was still in school and I was still in the grips of a mysterious illness. At one point in the conversation the only sound James could hear on the other line were deep gulps of air meant to mask the sounds of heavy sobs.

Then there is the private journal, which my father, in lieu of talking directly to me about what happened, decided to hand over to me for my research. These entries allowed me to relive the hospital stay from my father's perspective. I read and reread every line; there were moments of laughter and solemn times, and then there were pa.s.sages so heartwrenching that I wanted to race over to him in Brooklyn and give him a bear hug. But I knew better than to do that. "To move forward, you have to leave the past behind." Though I wasn't ready to do that myself, I could, at least for his sake, follow his motto when it related to him. My strong Irish protector was, at the heart of it all, a big softie, and his love for me, something that during our roughest times I had questioned, was immeasurable. "All I knew was that she was alive, and her spirit was intact. We had more hospital stays for treatments, doctor visits, and lots of medications to deal with, but my baby was on the way home," the journal ends.

Though I never properly thanked my father (or, for that matter my mom, Stephen, my friends, or even the doctors and nurses), we now met for dinner regularly, which was a vast improvement over the once-everysix months relations.h.i.+p we had had before. Sometimes, now, over a meal, we lock eyes and begin speaking in some sort of secret code, which could be described as an otherworldly connection, inadvertently freezing out everyone else at the table. I never realized how rude we often were until Giselle later brought it up. "I don't think you guys are aware of it," she confided, "but sometimes it's hard for people around you to feel included."

We didn't mean to exclude others. My dad and I had gone off to war, fought in the trenches, and against all odds had come out of it alive and intact. There are few other experiences that can bring two people closer than staring death in the face.

By contrast with my newfound connection with my dad, ever since I was released from the hospital, there had been the cloud of the pills and everything else hanging over my mother and me. I think it's precisely because of how close my mother and I had been prior to my illness that our relations.h.i.+p suffered. Perhaps because my dad had been more of a footnote in my life, whereas my mom was a dominant force, it was easier for my father to engage with this "new" me.

To cope, my mom actively rewrote the narrative of my disease, insisting that I was "never really that bad" and that she "always knew I would recover." I was too strong to be sick forever, she told herself. She couldn't come to terms with the fact that I wasn't yet fully recovered until one afternoon in midsummer when we went out to eat, just the two of us, at J. B. Winberie's in Summit. It was a magnificent evening, with a slight breeze rustling the umbrellas above the patio furniture, so we took seats outdoors and ordered fish entrees and a gla.s.s of white wine each.

As we ate, I began to ask her questions about how I had behaved during those days in Summit before I was admitted to the hospital. I still had only nebulous recollections, mostly of things that had turned out to be hallucinations, and I wasn't sure what was real or not. The whole thing was still a mystery to me, and I was eager to piece together what had happened.

"You were just out of your mind," she said. "Do you remember when you had your EEG done?"

EEG? "No, I don't." But after some rehas.h.i.+ng, I did remember something: the nurse at Dr. Bailey's office with her strobe light. Unlike the unnerving scene in the hospital video, when my experience of those moments was likely never encoded in my brain at all, this memory had been made and stored. The problem was retrieving it. When the brain is working to remember something, similar patterns of neurons fire as they did during the perception of the original event. These networks are linked, and each time we revisit them, they become stronger and more a.s.sociated. But they need the proper retrieval cues-words, smells, images-for them to be brought back as memories.

Watching me struggle to remember this, my mom's face flushed, and her lower lip quivered. She buried her face in her hands; it was the first time I had seen her cry since long before I was sick.

"I'm better now, Mom. Don't cry."

"I know, I know. I'm being silly," she said. "Oh, and you were totally nuts. You walked into a restaurant and demanded demanded food. Just demanded it. Although I guess that's not too far outside your normal personality." food. Just demanded it. Although I guess that's not too far outside your normal personality."

We laughed. Just for a brief moment, I could picture the rows of booths in the diner and a blurry man behind the countertop handing me coffee. This recovered image taunted me with the echoes of all the other moments I had forgotten and would never get back. And then it was gone.

More than just the recovery of a memory, though, this was the turning point when my mom finally conceded how afraid she had been, revealing through her tears that she hadn't always been certain that I would be "fine." And with that simple, natural gesture, our relations.h.i.+p rounded a corner. She once again became my ultimate confidante, companion, and supporter. It took accepting how close I had come to death (something impossible before, because it was her survival mechanism to deny) to finally allow us to move forward together.

CHAPTER 42 INFINITE JEST

Four months after my initial hospital stay, the lease to my h.e.l.l's Kitchen apartment expired. My disability payments, which had been cut in half once they changed from short to long term, could no longer cover the rental expense, so my father met me there one morning to pack up my old life and clear the way for a new, uncertain one.

The red brick tenement was the same as it had always been, with its broken buzzer, stray marks of graffiti, and the "No Trespa.s.sing" sign on the door. Piles of unopened mail cluttered my mailbox. The building's superintendent, a chubby, middle-aged man with a thick Spanish accent, walked by us with a short, "How ya doin'?" as if I had never left. Maybe he genuinely hadn't noticed. My father and I climbed the stairs, past the chipping, gray-yellow wallpaper. It was all so familiar that when we made it to my apartment, I half-expected Dusty to still be there waiting for me, even though my friend Ginger had been fostering her for months.