Who are you

Who are you?

The question I ask myself everyday. I even wrote it on the back of this photograph. It is a constant reminder to challenge myself to recollect my thoughts.

On the front of the photo there is a family standing in front of a lake. The water is beautiful and the camera caught the sparkles of sunlight glistening off of the waters. Behind the family is a fishing boat. You can see the fishing rods standing erect against the boat's cabin.

The family is composed of four individuals. There is a mother, father, daughter, and son. The children stood in-between their parents. The daughter endearedly hugging her father. The son is being adorably embraced by his mother. I can only assume who were the children's favorite parents and vice versa who were the parent's favorite children.

Standing to the left was the wife I am told. She was slender, yet she had an athletic body frame. Gloria was her name. Her smile resembles the sun's shine. As I gaze upon her face, she brings a warm feeling to my insides.

The son, named Jim which is short for Jimmy, stands taller than his mother. He is wearing a cut-off sleeve shirt with Usain Bolt imprinted on the front. Jim too has an athletic, slender body build as his mother. It is in my opinion he ran track. He probably was good too.

Next to Jim was Sarah - the sister and daughter. She had on capris, a pink blouse, and open-toe sandals on. I don't know why, but I have this internal visceral feeling Sarah did not plan on fishing that day.

To the far right of the family is the father. A clean shaven man who stands tall and proud. He has an exuberant and joyous aura to himself. You can see for him that particular day was starting off great. He is surrounded by family, on vacation, and is engulfed by a warm, sunny day.

How could the picture get any better?

I look up from the photo and gaze upon a mirror stationed on the wall to my right. Horror grips my sight whenever my eyes capture the image being reflected back. Purple and blue bruises stain my face, stitches that will leave scars are on my neck, and a gauze wrapped around my head.

The once clean shaven man is now a bruised and battered man laying in a hospital bed. The exuberance and joy seen in the photo is now dull and full of despair in the mirror. Not to mention I also have a scruffy beard on my face.

Every time I look into the mirror I go into a state of sorrow. I lament because I do not know how to grieve. There is more physical pain in my body than emotional pain from losing family members who were so close to me.

Thinking about what I do not know makes me afraid. I can't remember my job, my skills, or hobbies I used to enjoy doing throughout my day.

I have been admitted into the hospital for two weeks now. My recovery has been slow yet progressive. The doctors have diagnosed me with full amnesia. The only thing I remember is how to read and write. I am basically a stranger to myself and the world around me.

A couple of days ago, when I woke from my slumber, the nurse brought in my personal belongings which contained the photo I wrote on and a gift. The gift was a composition book. The nurse informed me how she was empathetic to my plight and wanted to give me a boon to ease my anxiety and despair.

The nurse told me I should use the composition book as a journal. Logging my days, thoughts, and hopefully any old memories that may come to mind. There has not been any reemergence of memories to come as of yet, however, I do have thoughts that I want to evoke from my mind.

I grab the composition book from the dinner tray table sitting to the left of me. A new memory I have now is how horrible the hospital food tastes. This could be a memory I write down but I have more pressing thoughts that I want to express right now.

Opening the composition book, I put the pen to the page and do not know where to start. I look upon the photo laying on my lap. It is faced down and the words who are you are shown and then I start:

Who are you? A question we ask from birth until it is found. Have you ever found yourself and then forgotten who you are somehow? Do you emerge from the ashes like a phoenix renewed? Or do you sweep up the dust and place it in an urn to save the person you once knew? Who are you? Can the answer be found in a day? Or do your experiences shape who you are until your dying day? When people describe who you are, does that make it you? Because people can see your actions and you can't hide your habits from the truth. Wouldn't it be better to just define yourself? To make who you are would be so much better than to be made by someone else. Today I begin the journey of finding me, and hopefully this journey will expose me on how to grieve...

A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts. It is the nurse who blessed me with the composition book. I assumed she was walking around to do her routine check-ups. Inspired by what I just wrote gave me the inclination to share. However, the nurse was not alone and I went into a shell.

The nurse informed me the two individuals with her were my parents. They have been verified through their identification which matched the names on my birth certificate. She wants to know if I would be comfortable with having them as visitors.

Eventhough they have been verified as my parents, I am still hesitant on being alone with them. Hesitant isn't even the proper word to describe how I'm feeling; I'm afraid, terrified of the situation I'm in right now.

Questions circulate my mind. Who do they expect me to be? How am I supposed to act? What are we going to talk about? What should we talk about?

"Tom... Tom..." the nurse continues to call my name.

Yes, Tom is my name. But who Tom is I still do not know to this day. I also don't know what happened on that tragic day. The family I had is gone and only a photo remains.

I hold the photo in my hand with a tight grip. I flip the photo to the front and look at my old family. I flip it to the back and ruminate on the words who are you? written on the back. Then I think about my journal and the first entry I just logged in.

Looking towards my parents I see the concern on their face. I feel compassion for them because they're looking at son who they once knew. There is also compassion because they're grieving for grandkids and a daughter-in-law who are now gone.

My head nods in acknowledgement to accept their visitation. A slight smile emerges on their face and I feel like I'm making the right decision.

The journey of finding me begins today. And maybe, just maybe, when my memories do come again - I'll be able to grieve what was lost to me on that tragic day.