GOK

Don’t you remember me?! Take a deep breath. What’s the last thing you remember? Ok. Let’s start simple: What’s your name? You don’t know. How old are you? You don’t know . And you don’t know who I am? Long day. Do you have any brothers or sisters and if so, how many? What do you know?

Well, let me start by telling you where you are: You’re in a hospital or a rehab facility. This is a rehab hospital. What are you doing here? Do you remember? You don’t. Any guesses?

You got in an accident. You had surgery and you survived, which is a miracle. But Rome wasn’t built in a day and in your case it won’t be rebuilt in a day either. Do you remember the accident? What do you remember? What do you know? Ok. Yes, it makes sense you have a headache. You know you have a headache. We can get you medicine for that. Anything else you can remember?

Then let me explain what you’re doing here. You had an epidural hematoma. You won’t know what that means, though. You had a traumatic brain… you got hit in the head. You’ve had surgery. You’ve had major surgery. Let’s start basic: Real real basic: you’re a human being by the way. Good. You knew that. Thank God you don’t think you’re a dog or a rabbit. You’re not. You’re human. You’re right. And who are your parents? You don’t remember. Who are your mom and dad? Still don’t know. Was worth a shot. Where do you live? Right. See, you do remember some things. But, do you know who I am? No, you don’t. No, I’ll tell you later, when you’re feeling better. If you feel better.

Your name is Frank. Do you remember that? People called you Frankie, like Frank Sinatra. Remember that. No, you’re not Frank Sinatra, you’re Frank Lean. But do your know who Sinatra was or is? You don’t. What’s your favorite TV show? Do you remember what year you were born? No, that’s incorrect. How about where you were born?

Maybe OT, PT, speech pathology, or something can help you. Not potty trained or pregnant teacher, physical therapy, occupational therapy. Don’t think any of that helps with memory. There’s OTC meds like Ginko biloba, but don’t know how much that’ll help. There are several films about TBIs and books like “A Boy Called Hopeless“. Films like “51 first Dates,” “Memento,” and others. But reality is more fucked up than TV. You may wind up paralyzed or have amputations, to warn you. There haven’t been any studies or anything, but stuff happens. Can you move your limbs? Try. You can. Good. What’s the last thing you remember? Ok. What state are we in again? A state of confusion. If you came home and saw your lock broken and the door open, what would you do? Get out your Ak-47. You don’t own a …. Nevermind. Put this three piece puzzle together please. Take your time.

Human: head, body, legs; take your time. You can’t figure it out. Put that in the notes. We’re going to have someone else talk to you now. I’ve enjoyed our time working together.

*

3 am

I gotta go. Like to the bathroom. Where am i? Who am I? Where’s the toilet? Going to get out of bed. So I do. Then, a loud repeating alarm. I got to go. A woman in a white doctor gown comes running.

“What’s going on? Why are you out of bed? Where are you going?”

I stood there scared frozen and whispered, “to the bathroom”. She sighs; a verbal rolling her eyes. She says, “You had to go to the bathroom? Remember? If you need the bathroom, you have to push the call button. Then, I’ll come, turn off the bed alarm, and go on the bathroom. This button. Remember? No, you don’t. Every night. Need to staple it to the goddamn ceiling. Push button to piss. Let me know when you’re done and flush, wash your hands, get back on the bed , and turn the bed alarm back on. Then, wait a few hours for it to happen again. Or until you start getting irritated because you’re hungry. You’re never going to use this goddamn button. In five minutes you’ll forget everything I’ve said Just go to the bathroom and I’ll clean it again.

*

I’m the one everyone ignores. No one gives a shit about me unless things aren’t clean enough, then I become visible and am screamed at. Otherwise, no one cares, but read Elizabeth Kubler Roth sometimes and you’ll find out janitors know more about what the fucks going on with the patients than the idiot doctors. You know, school janitors get paid more than teachers, but I guarantee we’re the lowest paid people in this whole goddamn rehab, even though we know the most. Take this guy, Frank, that this woman talked to this morning. The med sheets at the foot of the bed, says this guy’s name is Werner Von Braun, not Frank, which could mean a few things: 1). A doctor put the wrong chart on this guys bed/didn’t remove the chart of someone who died, 2). The person who came earlier was fucking with guy’s head. 3). GOK. God Only Knows. It’s none of my business. I don’t care. I’m not licensed to do anything but clean, but I got in this story. But who cares? No one listens to us. And how do you know I’m reliable? You don’t, but what 50 year old doesn’t know his own name unless he’s been told his name has changed. Doctors aren’t Gods, they’re humans like you and me and they fuck up sometimes, like everyone else, but why hasn’t Frank’s family visited him? The chart says he’s married with five kids: 2 girls, 3 boys. No phone calls, nothing. Why does he keep talking in glossalalia and screaming when getting his meds. Maybe they’re not his meds because it’s the wrong patient. But what the hell do I know? I’m just the janitor and I won’t get sued when this guy dies because he’s not Frank.