Chapter 8
After I finish my tea, I walk across the street and take the elevator up to the fifth floor of Mass General.
It climbs slowly, and as each floor number lights up above the doors as we ascend, I feel what I think is a panic attack growing in my chest, crowding my lungs as I try to gulp down air without drawing too much attention from the two nurses standing beside me.
When I left here yesterday, I had really hoped I wouldn’t need to come back.
The bit of my brain that still worked wanted so badly to believe I would wake up this morning with my memories magically restored, that I had somehow put a mental block on everything that would have to happen next if they weren’t.
More tests, more appointments, more reminders of just how broken I am.
A loud ding saves me from that particularly sobering thought just as the doors open on the fifth floor.
I step out, take in a few more deep breaths, then turn down the hall to see the neurology clinic just ahead.
The waiting room is wrapped in glass walls so I can see row after row of chairs and a long desk near the back.
There’s a nurse seated behind it, and he gives me a warm smile when I enter.
“Checking in?” he asks as I approach.
“Yes. Marnie Stephens?” I reply.
He types something into his computer. “I just need your license and insurance card.”
Right. I reach into my tote bag and pull out my wallet, sliding my license from its sleeve.
Then I look for my insurance card. I have insurance, right?
I had it when I worked at Probus Recruiting.
I had even celebrated the fact that, after years of temping, I finally had a job that offered benefits.
But I don’t work for Probus anymore, I work in sales and distribution at some mysterious beverage company. That’s if I still have a job at all.
I’m about to start panicking when I find an insurance card tucked behind a Walgreens rewards card.
It’s not the same one I had in California.
I’m not even sure if it’s valid, but I still hand it over to the nurse.
It feels like I’m holding my breath as he types the information into his computer—click, click, click.
He pauses. Then, miraculously, he smiles and hands both cards back to me.
“You’re all set,” he says. “Have a seat and we’ll call you when we’re ready.”
I thank him and turn back to the waiting room.
The chairs are all covered in the same fabric, beige with specks of dark brown, like whoever picked them out wanted you to forget them as soon as you left. It’s kind of ironic, considering. I pick the one closest to the desk, situating myself with my bag in my lap. And I wait.
The minutes pass slowly. There’s a woman sitting across from me in a Patriots sweatshirt, scrolling on her phone with the same glassy-eyed focus I feel like I’ve had since I woke up.
Same for the man on the other side of the room, who’s staring slack-jawed at the aquarium on the far wall.
We’re all waiting for our names to be called, the world’s least exciting lottery.
I’m so desperate for something to do, I’m about to pick up the two-year-old copy of Golf Digest sitting on the small table next to me when a nearby door opens.
“Margaret Stephens?” another nurse calls out from the doorway. When I stand, she smiles. “Come on back.”
I follow her down a long corridor lined with doors, each one shut and only the muted hum of conversation audible as we pass, until she finally ushers me into a room at the end.
She takes my blood pressure and my heart rate and tells me the doctor will be with me shortly. Then she’s gone and I’m left staring at a poster on the opposite wall explaining the parts of the brain.
After twenty minutes, it’s clear to me why Overboard didn’t feature Goldie Hawn’s outpatient cognitive therapy appointments after she was discharged from the hospital: This is all painfully boring.
A knock on the door echoes off the walls of the small room a moment later, and a doctor appears through the doorway.
Her scrubs are a vibrant turquoise that flatter her complexion.
Her tight curls are short, and she’s wearing a pair of silver hoop earrings.
She tilts her head to look at me over the rim of her red glasses and smiles.
“Hello, Margaret. I’m Dr. Janine Herman. I’m a neuropsychologist who works with the neurology team here at Mass General.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Herman,” I say, shaking her hand. “You can just call me Marnie.”
“And you can just call me Janine,” she replies. “You might not realize, but I was in the ER the night you were admitted.”
I feel the heavy roll of my pulse. I still have such an abstract perspective on my injury and everything that happened afterward.
It’s a blank page only half filled with bits and pieces of information supplied by the doctors and nurses who were there, but without any real frame of reference.
Like people describing a movie they saw, not my actual life.
It’s so frustrating and scary that before I know it, I feel tears welling in my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I say, doing my best to smile even as my bottom lip trembles. “I usually don’t cry like this, but I can’t seem to stop lately.”
“No need to apologize. No doubt your emotions are a bit of a roller coaster. But that’s normal. That’s why you’re here. Dr. Buterman took care of the injury, so now I’m here to help you with the recovery.” She sits down in the chair in front of me and crosses her legs. “So how have you been doing?”
I had promised myself that I would try to be brief, but once I start talking, I can’t seem to stop.
I tell her everything: how I didn’t recognize anything in my apartment, how I met Ben and he showed me where to find the grocery store.
I even bring up the mouse, though I’m not sure how that fits into the broader story of my brain.
Once I finally shut up, Janine leans back and sighs. “I know you might not believe this, but you’re doing phenomenally well.”
I let out a feeble laugh. “Really? Because this does not feel phenomenal.”
“You’ve been through a lot,” she agrees.
“And I can see how that gap in your memory would be your main concern right now. But trust me when I say that it’s impressive to be doing this well after an injury like yours, which leads me to believe that your memories haven’t been affected by the injury, just your ability to retrieve them.
If that’s the case, then we have to give your brain time to heal.
Develop a plan to help in your recovery. ”
“You mean a plan that will help me get my memories back.”
She pushes her reading glasses up to the top of her head. “Recovery isn’t linear, Marnie. You’ll have good days and bad days. The most important thing is to be patient with yourself. As your neural networks stabilize, I’m confident things will start coming back to you.”
It feels so ambiguous. So passive.
“So I’m supposed to just… wait?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound too dejected.
Her lips purse as she seems to consider.
“Not wait, per se. But making demands of your brain right now could do more harm than good. That said, you don’t have to take a back seat in the process, either.
Something as simple as spending time with friends and loved ones could promote memory recall, especially if they’re nearby and know your daily routine. ”
The hope that had begun to float up in my chest quickly sinks to the floor. The only person I know in Boston is Matt, and he just made it very clear that spending any time together is off the table.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“Well, there’s data to suggest that visiting places that are familiar to you helps with recovery as well, but since you’re new to the city, that might be hard,” she says carefully.
I’m about to remind her this wouldn’t just be hard; it would be nearly impossible.
Even if I wasn’t struggling with directions right now, I still don’t know the city, let alone how to navigate it.
But then my mind flits back to my apartment.
The movie tickets on the corkboard. The bookstore receipt. The coffee shop napkin.
“What about places I think I’ve been before?” I ask.
Janine cocks her head to the side. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“It might be nothing, but since I’ve been little, I tend to keep mementos from moments I want to remember,” I say, trying to find the right words to make this sound constructive and not completely crazy.
“They usually seem pretty insignificant, like a candy wrapper, but they mean something to me. And I’ve found a few things like that in my apartment—movie tickets, napkins, receipts, all from places in Boston.
I know I kept them for a reason. I just don’t know why.
But maybe if I went back to those places, it could trigger something in my brain. Unlock my memories. What do you think?”
Janine smiles. “I think you’re onto something.” Then she turns back to her tablet. “Okay, let’s put together a plan and then schedule a follow-up appointment for next month to see how you’re progressing. How does that sound?”
I nod. For the first time in what feels like ages, excitement stirs in my chest. I can get all my memories back—all I have to do is follow the clues I left around my apartment. If Goldie Hawn could do it in Overboard, I can do it in Boston.
Maybe I’ll even pick up some purple shampoo while I’m at it.