Fragile Memories

The memories are stored in my brain. What a delicate receptacle to store such treasured items. It’s such a fragile container to hoard the precious parts of my life. In February of 2015 I fell on ice after cleaning the walkway. As I look back, I don’t remember anything after replacing the broom on the porch until being in an ambulance on my ride to UPMC hospital.

There remains a hole in my life, a hole where there should be a memory. I still only remember what I have been told. My daughter Anna said I appeared outside of her bedroom door, telling her that “I think I need help.” I don’t remember getting into the car or ride to the hospital at Frick. I don’t remember going into the hospital or the time that I spent there with any of the testing, the physician, or the staff.

I should remember the staff. I worked at Frick for 34 years and knew most of them. Many are friends. I walked the hallways for all those years and knew the building as well as I knew my own home. I remembered nothing. It’s like opening an empty closet. I know the hangers mark the things that should be on hangers, but there’s nothing on them.

I have snatches of recollection from the emergency department at UPMC, snatches of going to the floor, and snatches of the admission process. I remember a long day of a stiff neck and fullness in my head. I remember a stream of physicians and technicians. The nurses and my roommate and his family made the most impression on my brain, but the memories are blurred. I barely remember my night nurse who was from India, sweet and patient, wheeling me down to my 4:30 a.m. CT.

I remember an assistant in forest green scrubs who took a job as an assistant. He wasn’t able to find what he wanted in his area of expertise. For some reason, I can’t recall his name but he studied music and was from Munhall, Pennsylvania.

I now can hardly recall my daylight nurse and all of the demands that I made for comfort and care or the two men came into my room and talked to me about my injuries. They discovered the crystals in one of my vestibular canals had misaligned and was misreading my position. By leaning me back over the edge of the bed and turning my head, they realigned them, reducing my feelings of disequilibrium. I remember two sweet, slender, cute young female aides, and how impertinently and teasingly refreshing they were. The names and faces of these benefactors have vanished and many of these memories have faded, lost in the fragile cells of my past.