Fallen: A Trauma, a Marriage, and the Transformative Power of Music (28 page)

“I’d like to do it,” Simon says after Joe leaves. “But... I don’t know if I can.”

“Why not?” Eli says as he sets the dinner table. “Why couldn’t you do it?”

“I don’t know,” Simon says. “I can’t play like I used to. I’m scared, I guess.”

“That’s the wrong way to look at it, man,” Eli says. “You’ve already stared down the scariest things possible. So. Nothing scares you now. Of course you can do it.”

“I don’t know,” Simon says. But he continues to practice, and three weeks later he makes his first public appearance at the sold-out
CD
release party at a local art gallery. Guido is filling in Simon’s spot on electric guitar for the gig, but Simon joins the band for the opening number, “99 Days,” a song Simon describes as having tumbleweed blowing through the hole in its heart.

I hope my baby’s still waiting for me on the Outside
I dream of her arms around me
But these bars surround me and
I’ve cried.
99 days
Never been so long
Every man pays
pays for what he’s done
It’s no way to live, no way to die
It’s no way to live, no way to die

The entire band plays on a raised platform except for Simon, who chooses to park in front of the stage. That way, when he is done playing, he can simply wheel away without the disruption of having to be lifted off. He keeps his playing simple, echoing the riff he played on the baritone guitar for the recording. His left hand is tight, and fumbly when he makes quick changes. He is nervous, yes, but he is doing what only four months ago would have been an impossible feat: he is playing live with his band. I lean in, hard, to the joy of this moment, along with everyone else in the room.

THE SNOW MELTS
. Spring is on its way, but work on the new house has yet to begin. The process of approving the renovation plans and hiring a contractor is much longer and more involved than I had anticipated. Stuck in interim housing, we chip away at each day, but sometimes, especially early in the morning, my impatience overwhelms me and I want my life back—my work, my things, my pre-accident daily routines—in all of its busy, messy, mobile, chaotic permutations. This small, narrow house in a West Sechelt subdivision, with its shag carpet and mauve walls, is the perfect setting for an updated version of Sartre’s
No Exit
. I would title it
Marooned,
borrowing Simon’s word. I am ashamed of these thoughts because, as much as I chafe at the slowness and smallness of our life, I am, unlike Simon, still free in my body. Despite the far more radical transformation his life has undergone, he rarely complains. The other day while Joe was over and I was out buying groceries, Simon’s condom catheter came off. Instead of their regular music session, Simon had to enlist Joe in helping him clean a puddle of urine off the kitchen floor. When self-pity burbles in my heart, I remind myself, that that was a hard day.

But my thoughts are full of big holes, unbridgeable gaps. How to convey the constant daily contradiction of emotions, battling? How to convey the constant courage needed to face the day? How courage is needed moment by moment but how, instead, it comes and goes, vaporous, dissipating with the grind of repetitive chores.

This morning Simon wakes up angry. Angry at his unpredictable bladder. Angry at his unpredictable bowels. Angry that his spinal cord injury never progressed from an
ASIA A
to an
ASIA B
or
C
. There is nothing I can say to ease his anger and... why should I? He deserves a day to rage.

It is all over the afternoon news that the actress Natasha Richardson has died of a traumatic brain injury. She fell on a beginner’s ski slope outside of Montreal. She refused ambulance assistance at the time of the fall but a few hours later became unstable. She was taken to a local hospital, then Montreal, then New York, but it was too late. Pressure on the brain stem caused brain death, and eventually they took her off life support. I am driving when I first hear the story and I have to pull the car over. I sit on the side of the road and weep for her and her family and I weep for us, for what we went through, and how close we came to a similar ending.

Over dinner, our sad, angry day behind us, we discuss what kind of stove would be most accessible. I have my heart set on a fancy range with a fully accessible side-opening oven door. Perhaps it is a little true that happiness can be bought: after our difficult day, it thrills me to think about buying our first ever stove for our first ever house.

SPRING ARRIVES EARLY
and with it a series of unqualified good things. The pots of strawberry plants on the back patio grow green and bushy, and hummingbirds frequent the feeder outside the kitchen, flashes of iridescent rust and peacock blue and kiwi green reflecting in the window. I get my first work contract since the accident, doing structural editing on a children’s book. Eli arrives back home from a soccer trip to Spain and France world-weary and years more grown up. Simon’s beloved Canucks secure a spot in the playoffs. Work begins, slowly, on the renovations at Cooper. And, at the beginning of April, I take Simon out to the medical offices at
UBC
for a neuropsychological (cognitive skills) test requested by WorkSafe
BC
.

Simon is nervous but immediately establishes a rapport with the psychologist, a woman named Lisa, who is about our age. It is a full day of testing, and I am not allowed to remain in the room once the assessment begins. I wander the
UBC
campus, one of my favorite places, and return at scheduled breaks with tea, sandwiches, and chocolate chip cookies. While Simon completes a written portion of the test, Lisa takes me into an adjacent room. She asks what changes or deficits I’ve noticed. I hate this type of question and feel as if, simply by answering, I am betraying Simon. But I answer as honestly as possible. I don’t see any big gaps in Simon’s cognition or personality, but... he is tired all the time, I tell her, and often in pain. He is slow in his thinking and speaking, and his balance is poor. The Posit Science games do cause a level of irritability and frustration that is unusual for him. I have worked hard to keep his recovery period stress-free but I suspect that if he had to deal with any basic level of responsibility, like cooking regularly or paying bills, both his stress and frustration levels would skyrocket. When he is extra-tired, or in a busy environment, there are moments when his logic, memory, or tactful nature might falter.

“For example?” she asks.

“At a soccer game,” I say. “When my son’s team played in the division finals a few weeks ago, it was a very intense and exciting game. As the action heated up, Simon, on the sidelines, shouted at the opposing team players. Nothing outrageous—the type of stuff he regularly yells at the
TV
when the Canucks are playing—but not really tactful at a kid’s game. And it’s not like him to do that.” I hate saying this out loud—this is the type of observation I avoid writing in my journal—but it is also a relief to let it out. “It’s an intermittent issue. Not a consistent problem at all. Most often he is his usual tactful, sensitive self. But when it does happen, I don’t know how to broach it. I don’t want to make him self-conscious, and I don’t want to mommy or nag at him. Do I let it go? Or do I say something?”

“I’ve always found head-on and honest works best,” Lisa says and smiles. “And it’s important to know that what is happening is not a problem per se with any particular mental faculty—memory, logic, or personality—it’s a problem of the brain becoming overloaded when he is tired or overwhelmed. I would imagine this will get better with time.” She smiles again. “You know, it’s a good brain he has. His test scores are exceedingly high. Given the severity of his injuries and the reports I have from
GF
Strong, I wasn’t expecting to see what I’m seeing in there.”

At the end of the day, Simon is exhausted but duly rewarded by Lisa’s summary of his test scores.

“Your baseline score was high. Very high. I’d place you somewhere in the 98th percentile of the population, in a range deemed very superior intellect. Now, there are a few areas where you score much lower—motor speed, visual-spatial problem solving, and expressive language—and this would indicate areas that were damaged by the head injury. But I’d like to point out three things. First, although there is a significant discrepancy between your highest and lowest scores, your lowest scores are all within an average functioning range. So a head injury for you looks like where many of us are at to start with. Second, in some of these low-score areas, you did eventually come up with the right answer but just not in the allotted amount of time, so I couldn’t score you points. This suggests one of two things to me. Either these areas will improve with time or you will have to compensate by taking more time to accomplish certain tasks. Third, you are emotionally and psychologically strong. For someone with test scores as high as yours, I would expect to see a certain level of neurotic tension in dealing with a severe head injury. Panic at not remembering a word or experiencing difficulty problem solving. Your sense of humor and general approach seem to provide you with the necessary tools to navigate your recovery with amazing grace.”

Simon smiles sideways at me, eyebrows raised. Whoa.

“Is there anything I can do to help those injured areas continue to heal?” he asks the doctor.

“You guys just keep doing what you are doing,” she says. “Other than that, I would give you the advice I’d give anyone. Keep trying new things. Learn a foreign language. Travel. I know you have a lot of complicating health issues, but when you’re ready, you are going to be able to do anything you want.”

“Except snowboard,” Simon says.

“Except snowboard,” the doctor agrees.

“I told you,” I say on the way out to the car. “New things!”

“Shush,” Simon says. “I get to be the unchallenged smarty-pants for today. Oh man, I can’t wait to tell my mom.”

I lie awake in bed that night beside a softly snoring Simon and let go of all my lingering doubts about his cognitive functioning. I am not particularly surprised by the test results, as I’ve always known that Simon’s intellect was fierce: strong, flexible, and versatile. I am more surprised at how relieved and validated I feel. Since the moment Simon woke up, I have felt him all there—challenged, yes, and struggling to connect all the parts of his thinking, but all there. All Simon. Still, after so many different doctors sat me down and told me that no matter what potential healing took place, the severity of Simon’s injuries meant his brain would never be as good as it once was, I questioned my perceptions. Were there gaps in Simon’s thinking that I was willfully oblivious to? Did my love and lifetime of shared experiences conspire to fill in these gaps? Did my brain actively work to re-create the post-accident Simon in the image of the pre-accident Simon? And if so, was that, ultimately, detrimental and unfair to him? For the first time, I feel as if can accept what the doctors have repeatedly told me: his brain might never totally regain its previous speed or stamina or balance. And while the cognitive test results don’t make the loss of speed, stamina, and balance irrelevant or unimportant, they do underscore my conviction that Simon has plenty of strong, healthy gray matter capable of re-creating its way in the world. He doesn’t need me to fill in any gaps.

ONE AFTERNOON WHILE
Simon has his classical guitar lesson, my mother and I go out for lunch. It is a year since she finished her last chemo treatment. Her hair has returned to its familiar curly tufts, and her latest blood test indicated she is cancer-free. She is ecstatic about Simon’s test results and my work contract.

“I’ve been so worried,” she says as she hugs me. “But you guys are going to be fine.” We make plans to meet the following week at the same time to go to a nursery together. She wants to buy a flowering cherry tree to plant in her front yard, but when the day rolls around, I ask Simon to call her and cancel: I am sick with a head cold and have lost my voice. Three days later, a Tuesday, I call, my voice still weak and scratchy. A high school friend has recently published a novel, and Mom and I spend a happy half-hour trying to match the fictional characters with their real-life counterparts. She calls back a few hours later while I am in the bath and leaves a message: “Listen, honey. I just heard a news story on
CBC
. I think maybe you have swine flu. Call me.”

The next day, Wednesday, Eli calls to tell her he passed his license test and is the proud owner of an N sticker, but she doesn’t pick up. We call again the following day from the ferry. The three of us have spent the afternoon at
GF
Strong, where Simon, along with four other recipients, was presented the 2009 Gert Vorsteher award, an award to celebrate remarkable determination in pursuing rehabilitation goals. I regret not having invited Mom—she would have loved the ceremony—but once again she doesn’t pick up. Friday I work a long day and by Saturday I have completed work on my editing contract. I am searching for the phone receiver in the papers piled on the kitchen table when it rings. I assume it’s Mom calling, as I was about to call her to make plans for Mother’s Day tomorrow. But it’s not Mom. It’s Joe Stanton’s partner, Sue, with news. A Powell River
RCMP
officer contacted the Halfmoon Bay General Store trying to get an accurate house address for me. The store owner called Sue, who now gives me the number for the
RCMP
officer. Even before I dial, I know with every atom in my body what the news will be.

MAY 10, 2009. MOTHER’S DAY

Last night I received news that Mom died. She died at home in her bed, most likely in her sleep, which is a blessing.

Wednesday, they think. I unwind the week in my mind. Was that the night that Eli and I both inexplicably woke up, meeting in the kitchen at three, each of us drinking a tall glass of water? I remember thinking that it was the type of sudden unexplainable wakefulness that I associate with the night I found out my father died. I remember thinking something bad has happened or something bad is about to happen. I almost said it out loud, to Eli, but stopped myself, thinking that’s the last thing he needs. Thinking I don’t need to catastrophize everything. Thinking, God, I’m turning into my mother.