Step by Step

Put one foot in front of the other.

Sounds easy enough. To a fully functional human being, that is. I observe my bare feet, the flakes of metallic-blue polish remaining on my nails (pre-coma, because I don’t remember painting them), and will them to move carefully and deliberately. They’re tender where I stomped on the broken mug, but that’s a minor irritant compared to the challenge of getting my feet to follow my commands. Sure, I can walk to the bathroom and down the hall, but I am not as precise and quick as I should be, and they are making me practice with Ruby, the rehab lady.

Ruby must have read a lot of books on how to encourage the brain-damaged, because she never stops saying nice things, no matter how much I suck. “Good job!” “Keep trying!” “You’re almost there!” “You rock.” I bet I’d get an Olympic medal if I could actually walk in a line that even resembled straight, instead of this invisible zigzag trail I follow through the rehab room.

“Don’t worry,” Ruby says. “Your brain and legs need to relearn how to communicate with each other, but it’s going amazingly well. You’ll be running circles around me in no time.”

So we try again. And again and again. I stand at attention, try to buy into her praise and follow her lead. We stand on one foot, we touch our toes, we touch our noses, and we play Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes. Next it’s Simon Says.

“When will I be ready for dodgeball?” I ask. Her face falls, and she struggles to find a way to let me down gently until she sees my smirk. She cracks up.

“You’re a nut,” she says, throwing one of my balled-up socks at me.

“Well, at least they didn’t have to tie me to the bed today,” I say.

I don’t get a laugh with that one.

Back in my room, I stand and study the parking lot outside my window. It’s windy, and swirls of dust dance around the cars. When I turn around, Super Doc is leaning against the doorframe.

“Rough day yesterday, I hear,” he says.

My throat tightens. What did the nurses tell him? Psychotic episode, or maybe severe mental breakdown involving mutilated bedsheets and a smashed piece of china?

“Got a little frustrated,” I say.

He walks across the room and settles into the chair. “Did the medication help?”

“Uh-huh. Knocked me right out.”

He nods. “Anger issues are pretty common after brain trauma,” he says. “You’re facing a lot of challenges, plus chemical changes in your brain can affect internal impulse control. I’ll be sending someone over to help you with that. Her name is Dr. Kirschbaum.”

I nod. I can’t imagine what she can do to get me to chill out, but there is no saying no to Super Doc. It would feel like saying no to God.

“Until then,” he says, “have you tried counting to ten?”

Counting? That’s something you’d say to a preschooler having a tantrum over candy. I shake my head.

“It sounds too simple, but it helps. Gives your body a bit of time to come down from the adrenaline rush. Take deep breaths too. Works for me.” It’s hard to picture Super Doc ever coming undone, but I’ll take his word for it.

When he stands up, he puts his hand on my arm. “Other than that, how are you feeling? How are the headaches?”

“Not so bad,” I say. “I can take it.”

“Good attitude. See you soon then.” On his way out, he stops and looks at the bulletin board again. “Any of this seem familiar?”

All I can do is shrug. I don’t want to give an answer that is too pessimistic, or he might give up on me. “Now that I’ve been staring at them for days, I can’t tell.”

He nods. “Give it time, Jessica,” he says. “These things don’t happen overnight.”