CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The Name Game

STANDING AT MY OFFICE DOOR, THE PRESIDENT OF MY COMPANY SAID to me, “We’re having a company-wide meeting in ten minutes in the conference area. As a test of your mental capacity, you’ll need to remember everybody by name.” Knowing his sense of humor—at times, humor only he appreciated—I looked up at him with a grin. Then I checked the position of my trusty tan cap. It covered disconcerting visual reminders of my brain surgery.

I was back at work on the fourth Monday after my surgery, not yet fully recovered but feeling unreasonably optimistic. As far as anyone at the office knew, I was ready to operate at full throttle, ready to jump back into the game. The swelling on the right side of my face was now only slightly noticeable. The dark circles around my eyes had faded.

“No problem,” I said, but of course, this was a huge problem. I could never remember names even before brain surgery.

Much to Linda’s frustration, I’d remember very personal things about people—some of them embarrassing—rather than their names. “Dropped out of school when she was fifteen. Hates vanilla ice cream. Talks out loud to her cat,” I’d say about someone. Then I’d wait for Linda to piece together the puzzle and come up with the person’s name. It was an “endearing” habit of mine that drove her crazy.

While I really liked my coworkers, I had no idea what most of their names were. I always felt that requiring nametags would be a good company policy for those of us, mostly me, who were name-retention impaired. Instead, I had to know their names strictly by memory. This didn’t happen in the best of times. And these were not the best of times.

“You do know I couldn’t remember their names before surgery,” I reminded the president. “And you always have new people around here.”

He smiled and said, “No worries,” and walked away.

I glanced back at my computer screen and our network’s empty log-in fields, then down at my photo of Leaf. It was the same picture that had been on my desk the day I got the news about my unruptured brain aneurysm from the neurologist. I imagined that right about now, Leaf would be curled up on the couch, snoring and dreaming of a chase.

I wondered why, other than due to an inadequate brain, my log-in didn’t work. It was a simple password that anybody, even I, could remember. It started with L and ended with F, with the letters E and A in the middle. I punched it in. Nothing. Access denied.

I panicked that it was all my fault that I couldn’t remember my password. Luckily the IT tech walked by and saw that I was there. He called out casually, “All staff log-in credentials were changed while you were away.” Relief flooded my body.

“It’s time for the meeting,” I heard the president say.

So this was no joke. He really was going to make me remember everybody’s names. Filled with dread, I walked down the hallway to the makeshift conference area where our president stood surrounded by the rest of the staff.

“Does anyone notice anything different?” he asked the group.

Everyone looked at me.

At that moment any delusion of being at full throttle evaporated. No longer able to rely on my core beliefs, I felt like a ghost of the man I had been. I fumbled with my cap to make sure it still covered my incision.

“We’re all very happy that you’re back,” the president said with enthusiasm.

These fifteen or so men and women I’d worked with for over three years clapped and smiled. They expressed heartfelt happiness that I’d survived and returned. Many came up later and personally told me they were glad I would be OK.

From that point on, each of them did their part to provide a soft landing for me. My boss was able to reduce my stressful workload when colleagues offered to take on some of my clients. I will always appreciate everyone who helped and welcomed me back to Planet Day Job. With more optimism than I’d felt in a long time, I could let myself hope that things would get back to normal in record time.

But progress was slow. During that first week at work, I grew increasingly concerned over my inability to focus. I could no longer count on my memory to kick in. Incessant headaches continued to pound my thought processes into submission. Now, it wasn’t only names I couldn’t remember. I had a tough time instantly recalling details of clients and job sites as well.

I’d come to the office every day, sit at my desk, and struggle to stand tall on a wobbling brain stem.

Prior to the surgery I was asked and had agreed to lead software implementation and training at a client site in North Carolina. This meant that at only the fifth week after my operation, I’d have to go to the airport, get on a plane, and drive a rental car to the site. To add to the tension, it was a troubled site with unresolved client issues. For reasons I’ve never understood, I had a reputation for handling thorny problems with diplomacy.

I made reservations for my flight and rental car. But in my heart I knew I wasn’t nearly ready for this assignment. Linda pleaded with me to stay home. “It’s too soon,” she said. “What if you have a relapse? What if you have a stroke? What if there is internal bleeding? Will you be near a hospital that has a neurosurgeon on staff? Will they know what to do with someone who had brain surgery only a month ago?”

Of course, she was right to be concerned. But the site and this big client were a major key to my division remaining open. Now that the merger had occurred, if our division lost money, we’d all be unemployed.

And so only a month after surgery, I sat on a plane, head wound and all, and flew to North Carolina. I had to be able to communicate effectively about the best ways to use our complex software systems. If I failed, I’d be labeled as dead weight at the site. With that kind of client feedback, I was sure that my employer would view me negatively.

Sitting in a window seat, I looked out at the clouds and tried to relax. Clouds weren’t doing it for me, so I closed my eyes and thought about Leaf and our favorite sanctuary—the large dog park by the river. Our adventures together exploring the wooded paths, hills, and river beaches brought a smile to my face. I recalled watching my canine problem-solving specialist make decisions about what direction to explore and which dogs to befriend. As usual, I counted on him to mirror back to me solutions and issues I couldn’t see in myself. So far, our lives had run uncannily parallel paths. During my recovery I had become even more observant of how Leaf dealt with challenges.

By the time we landed in North Carolina, the steroids I was still taking for healing had worn off. I was bombarded by loud noises from every direction. Adding to my already shaky nerves, the steroids made me feel as if at any moment someone might physically attack me. I again admitted to myself that although it had taken courage to keep my commitment, I truly was not in tip-top shape for traveling or for handling the subtleties of meeting our client’s needs.

I thought of Leaf, who was not really in tip-top shape for swimming in a river with strong currents because of his short legs. Like him, I was determined to succeed. I’d do my best to restrain my frontal-lobe outbursts.

After checking in at the hotel, I did what Leaf might have done: I strategized for my own well-being. “When I am not on-site, I will be in bed sleeping,” I said out loud to myself. I decided for the entire week, anytime I wasn’t working, I’d sleep. I searched the Internet for the closest emergency medical facility that could handle someone who’d recently had brain surgery. The University of North Carolina Medical Center was nearby. I took a dry run and checked out the emergency room. At some level I knew I wouldn’t need to make that trip or require an ambulance to transport me, but I prepared for it anyway.

Twice during that week I found myself in a state of paranoia. At the hotel I curled up in a corner of the room and stared at the bolted and locked door to make sure intruders didn’t break in and steal my food. I was ravenously hungry. Like a feral animal, I gobbled down dinner from a fast-food restaurant.

After a couple of days, the irrational episodes subsided. To regain balance, I’d call Linda and she’d hold the receiver to Leaf’s ear. I’d tell him how much I loved and missed him. I tried to contain my emotional breakdowns to the hotel room but my fight-or-flight response occasionally took hold at work. When someone asked me a question I couldn’t immediately answer, I didn’t know what to do and panicked. In my mind the world had turned treacherous, so the questions could be attempts to trip me up. Since everyone knew me from previous visits to this site, if they noticed my hesitation, they were polite enough not to say anything,

Somehow I managed to call upon every ounce of energy and resourcefulness I had left to solve my client’s software issues and alleviate their concerns. By the end of the week, I’d fulfilled my commitment. I was more than ready to go home.