Eight years ago, after returning from a couple of days at the Golden Gloves finals, my dogs were so happy to see me that they knocked me over, and the base of my skull hit a very hard island in the kitchen. I was out cold. Luckily, my son must have seen this before he drove off, and he came in and carried me to a chair.
By tradition, going back centuries, I waited the three required days to see if my headache would evaporate. It didn't, so I went to the nearest walk-in. I was kidnapped. I won a summer vacation in the ER and ICU. Blood pool on brain, dead brain matter. Feeling helpless did not help, so I decided to violate the warden's order that I not so much as attempt to get out of bed without the help of two nurses. If escape was impossible, maybe I could find some degree of relief. Thus, I would pretend I was sleep-walking, go to the nurses' station, and demand that one of them provide me with a bowl of marijuana. At least that got them laughng as they tried to scold me.
Upon release, I began experiencing difficulty in facial recognition. So I called my favorite medical expert, the now doctor who long ago was my sixth grade sweatheart. She identified the region in my brain that was injured, and said it might heal slowly over the next two years, but added that we are rather old now, so be patient. Despite my desire to break out singing, "I Want to Hold Your Hand," I couldn't remember the first line well enough to give me a sense of over-confidence. Better, I suppose. (I sensed she was growing tired of my calls asking for an Rx placebo for my hypochondria.)
I had been the local hemit well before this, but it surely reinforced my desire to spend more time alone. Of course, I maintain close relationships with my children and grandchildren. (I just has an hour's worth of facing-timing with my one-year old granddaughter who lives in Europe!) For unknown reasons, I have been doing more public speaking again. And I attend area No Kings rallies. But I enjoy a much slower pace these days.
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