Week 10: Sticks & Stones
Sitting in a wheelchair, waiting for my next appointment for therapy of some sort, I finally see the girl I keep hearing about. Molly was the 12-year-old sister of a classmate who had been hit by a car. Her room was near mine. My parents often gave me updates on Molly in an almost-relieved tone as we listened to her scream and cry down the hall. Things could always be worse, their eyes seemed to say.
Contrary to popular belief, the sight of a head shaved and scarred is never not stared at, even in here. Molly's scars are particularly long and range over her head like a marked route on a globe - front to back, top to side. They're especially gruesome on such a young girl. She is easily the youngest patient here - most are at least middle-aged if not elderly and recovering from car accidents or strokes.
Stealing glances at the tiny, conspicuous scalp, I feel pity for her. Without a doubt, a month earlier, this would be the extent of our interaction. I would stare while pretending not to, and then go on my way, perhaps whispering behind my hand to a friend.
Today, though, as Molly perseverates about her medication schedule to a nurse, I feel compelled to say something.
I'm not the biggest conversationalist either these days, and I'm ridiculously nervous at the prospect of speaking to this kid. Still, I gather up the bits of courage I find in forgotten corners of myself.
I look at the girl who regularly shrieks and cries through the night like a newborn who has not learned a sleep schedule. I paste on a smile that takes a fraction longer to register on the left side of my face and say, "Hi, Molly! I'm your neighbor!"
To my horror, my voice sounds like that of an overly-inflective preschool teacher on uppers. What is with me? Is "trying too hard" part of my diagnosis too, or has it always been there and I've been too blind to see it?
Molly replies just as she should, just as I would if I truly had no filter and didn't give a damn about what was polite, and somebody had just said something exceedingly stupid. She looked straight at me and said, "I don't care."
And she didn't. Care, that is.
Is my ego bruised by a 12-year-old? Maybe a little. Honestly, it feels more like shame on my part, though. For being so fake. For acting happy when I'm not. Why waste energy I don't have on something that doesn't matter here? Molly's frankness has laid me bare, in the wreckage of all my teenage pretense. In the faded hallways of reality, I find this charade sorely lacking.
In the upside-down world of brain injury rehabilitation, I discover that Molly is far more adult than I.
*Names have been changed.
Contrary to popular belief, the sight of a head shaved and scarred is never not stared at, even in here. Molly's scars are particularly long and range over her head like a marked route on a globe - front to back, top to side. They're especially gruesome on such a young girl. She is easily the youngest patient here - most are at least middle-aged if not elderly and recovering from car accidents or strokes.
Stealing glances at the tiny, conspicuous scalp, I feel pity for her. Without a doubt, a month earlier, this would be the extent of our interaction. I would stare while pretending not to, and then go on my way, perhaps whispering behind my hand to a friend.
Today, though, as Molly perseverates about her medication schedule to a nurse, I feel compelled to say something.
I'm not the biggest conversationalist either these days, and I'm ridiculously nervous at the prospect of speaking to this kid. Still, I gather up the bits of courage I find in forgotten corners of myself.
I look at the girl who regularly shrieks and cries through the night like a newborn who has not learned a sleep schedule. I paste on a smile that takes a fraction longer to register on the left side of my face and say, "Hi, Molly! I'm your neighbor!"
To my horror, my voice sounds like that of an overly-inflective preschool teacher on uppers. What is with me? Is "trying too hard" part of my diagnosis too, or has it always been there and I've been too blind to see it?
Molly replies just as she should, just as I would if I truly had no filter and didn't give a damn about what was polite, and somebody had just said something exceedingly stupid. She looked straight at me and said, "I don't care."
And she didn't. Care, that is.
Is my ego bruised by a 12-year-old? Maybe a little. Honestly, it feels more like shame on my part, though. For being so fake. For acting happy when I'm not. Why waste energy I don't have on something that doesn't matter here? Molly's frankness has laid me bare, in the wreckage of all my teenage pretense. In the faded hallways of reality, I find this charade sorely lacking.
In the upside-down world of brain injury rehabilitation, I discover that Molly is far more adult than I.
*Names have been changed.