how to integrate a concussion

or: remembering and forgetting

remember: you were never guaranteed this time here. two inches to the left and this world slips out of your grasp, you stay in ++++!!+!!+!!, you do not open your eyes at 5:32AM on the bathroom floor to see J standing over you calling your name over and over again, wearing an expression of terror that you have never seen him wear before.

remember: 6am, the pre-dawn light coming over the tree-covered mountains. J carries you out the door and the crisp morning air rushes into your lungs, and for the first time that morning you feel something other than terror. you sit limply in the passenger’s seat as the car hugs the turns to the hospital. three deer appear at the roadside. even now, in your stupor, you notice them. deer, you say, weakly.

remember: 7am in the emergency room, the machines around you beeping endlessly as the lights beam down harsh and flourescent. a cervical collar holds your neck straight as you sit there waiting, listening to the clock tick, for the results of your CT scans. every now and then the tears come, hard and fast. J squeezes your hand and you squeeze back harder. cling on, to be more accurate. you think about dad and you think about mom and you think about your brother. i want to go home, you think. i want to go home.

—

—

two weeks later
friday afternoon, golden hour

P is in town, and on a late friday afternoon after work, he catches the yellow line from oakland up to san francisco. you give him a little tour of the group house — the downstairs sprawl, the sauna in the backyard, the upstairs foyer — before you venture outside together in search of sunlight.

it’s a balmy 65 degrees; divisadero is filled with happy hour revellers, and as you walk by the covid-era parklets, you catch fragments of conversations floating over half-drunk lagers. turning onto page street, P notes the vibrant colors of various apartments and point out weird-looking plants before the two of you stop at last at Duboce. here, you walk together to a patch of grass under a giant oak tree, arranging yourselves around its trunk as the conversation meanders.

a dog sprints by, then rejoins the pack at the center of the park. fifty yards away, over 20 dogs have been let loose, celebrating the pre-weekend in a state of near delirium, sniffing grass and fetching balls and rolling around, as dogs do.

you begin to describe to him the tumult of the past several weeks.

the wildest part, you tell him, is how quickly it’s all gone away. i feel like i’ve just slipped back now into everydayness, like nothing happened.

the sun flings itself through the trees, across the park, catching and dancing in their fur. a corgi nearly flips over in its attempt to fetch something.

it makes you laugh, and then you continue your train of thought: like, when i first got out of the hospital, i’d wake up in the morning and walk outside and just feel this exquisite, overwhelming gratitude of like — holy shit, i’m still here? i’m alive. i have a body and limbs and i can move. i’m still here.

the corgi waddles back to its owner, proudly gripping a small red frisbee between its canines.

you know what the doctor told me? you say, she told me: two inches to the left, and you would have broken your neck. two inches.

P widens his eyes and shakes his head.

that’s scary, he says.

you nod. and now it hasn’t even been two weeks, and i can feel it all slipping away. im getting sucked into things that don’t matter, losing sight of the big picture, and it’s all so frustrating, you know?

P nods, too, then goes silent for a bit.

the two of you turn your attention back to the corgi.

after a while, P says. it kind of sounds like you had a spiritual high, of sorts.

you think about that for a bit, scratching your foot. yeah, you say, yeah that sounds pretty accurate.

the thing is, he continues, is you can’t hold onto those. it’s like – the tighter you cling, the further you get.

he shrugs. seems weird, but sometimes, you just have to let life back in. let the unaliveness be a part of the aliveness.

—

saturday morning: back to your usual routine. you wake when your body wants to, when the sun has nearly peaked in the sky, and lie in bed for a bit, scanning your room.

you’re moving out of the group house in a little over a week, and you make small mental notes of all the things to remember to pack: books, clothes, your stuffed cat, your stuffed elephant. sticks, rocks, your new plant collection, your candles. your tarot decks, your ukulele, eleven canvases of art, and all the other random doodads and scraps of life one acquires by living.

having taken a satisfactory inventory, you yawn and take a big, full-body stretch, sliding slowly off the side of your bed and blinking the sleep out of your eyes before making your way groggily across the hallway to the bathroom. you grab your toothbrush, squeeze a dollop of toothpaste, and walk outside.

it is warm. you are in a sports bra and biker shorts. the bright summer sun beats insistent against your skin.

a woman walks by with her dog and glances at you sideways before looking away. she disappears around the corner, and the street is empty once again.

and that’s when the city stops. the wind quiets, the cars pause. even the trees and their leaved branches hold still for just a fraction of an instant. then there it is: calm, exquisite clarity.

—

remember: you must forget before you can remember.