A FEW DAYS into the new year, Joan walked the phone into the living room, where I was watching TV and nursing a whopper of a headache, and told me that my friend Phil Herra wanted to say a few words.
We had just received a Christmas card from Phil and his family, picturing his wife, Linda, his two sons and two daughters, and their springer spaniel. Joan had explained that Phil was an old college football teammate and had been one of the four groomsmen at our wedding. She also showed me his photo in our wedding album, which was on the shelf next to the baby scrapbooks. When I’d gone into financial planning after college, he’d spent a year teaching and then went into industrial sales. The Herras were the only couple we’d stayed close friends with since college.
The couple routinely called us after the first of every year to wish us a Happy New Year and a Merry Christmas, but this year was different. Joan had spoken with Linda several times since my accident, keeping her and Phil apprised of my progress and how Joan and I were doing.
After showing Joan my “I really don’t want to do this” face, I reluctantly spoke with Phil. Joan had already described him as an enthusiastically vocal man, who at six feet three inches and two hundred and ninety pounds had the type of voice that carried for miles. So I was surprised to hear him on the phone, sounding mild mannered and speaking in a soft, gentle voice, as if he knew this was going to be difficult for me. He also sounded very positive, which I appreciated.
“How are you feeling, Bossy?” Phil asked.
Joan had told me that my NIU teammates had nicknamed me Bossy during my freshman year after I and the five other freshman offensive linemen were told to shave our heads. With my bald scalp, I reminded my teammates of Curly in the Three Stooges movie where he enters a cow-milking contest in a boxing-ring setting, with K.O. Bossy printed on the back of his satin robe. The nickname had stuck, apparently.
“I had an accident and hit my head, and I have a bad headache,” I replied. “I apologize for not knowing who you are.”
Before I handed the phone back to Joan, Phil reassured me that this was a temporary situation from which I’d fully recover.
“If anyone is going to be okay, it’s going to be you,” he said.
After hearing about my accident, our friends Randy and Johnna Leach offered to bring over a home-cooked meal so Joan would have one less thing to worry about. On a day when my pain seemed to be under control, we invited them over. Joan and I thought it would be a good idea for me to interact with friends with whom I felt safe.
Beforehand, Joan showed me their photos and told me we’d met them at one of Grant’s motocross events in January 2003, where their son, Justin, had been in wheel-to-wheel competition with our son. Joan said our sons were rivals, but we had been able to put that aside because the Leaches were open, friendly, and animated people, and we enjoyed each other’s company.
When Randy and Johnna arrived at six o’clock—with Justin as a late addition—I must have greeted them with a blank stare because Johnna mentioned it later in the evening. “When we walked in the door, did you feel a familiarity?” she asked, never one, as she put it, to “ignore the elephant in the room.”
“With you guys there’s no memory, but there’s a feeling of being comfortable,” I replied carefully, not wanting to hurt their feelings.
That much was true. I could tell that I was comfortable having them in my house because Joan, my barometer for whether I liked someone, seemed fine.
Johnna had cooked up some cheese manicotti with salad and garlic bread. While we men headed into the dining room and sat down, the women heated up the main dish, set the table, and filled our glasses with Coke and Diet Coke. I didn’t know how manicotti would taste, but Joan and Johnna had discussed what I would like in advance. The Percocet often diminished my appetite, so Joan put small portions on my plate.
Randy, who is about six feet tall with salt-and-pepper hair—and, as Johnna likes to say, is strikingly handsome—teased his wife in his southern drawl that the manicotti didn’t have enough sauce. Johnna, an attractive blonde who stood five feet five inches in heels, replied, “Kiss my ass.”
The way she said this was funny, so I laughed. I’d heard TV characters use this same phrase in a mean way or to start a fight, but she was being playful. I looked over at Joan and was relieved to see that she was laughing too, because this was the kind of banter we usually exchanged—even more so, I was told, in the old days. I’d been noticing lately that the same word or phrase could mean different things in different situations, and sometimes I used the wrong word at the wrong time. Other times I knew what I wanted to say but couldn’t retrieve the right word, which I learned was called aphasia.
From this joking around, I could see the evening was off to a good start. The Leaches told me stories about Grant and Justin racing together and how Randy and I always parked our RVs next to each other. Justin, who had a good-looking mix of his mother’s and father’s features, recounted how we used to go to dinner and a movie after a long day of practice runs at the track, trying to relax before a big race.
They seemed worried that I didn’t remember anything they were describing, but that didn’t stop them from trying. Johnna was sweet but persistent as she kept looking for a trigger, as if she believed that by asking me “Don’t you remember this?” enough times, my memory would suddenly return.
Seeing the silver band on Justin’s left hand, I asked, “So, you’re married?”
When everyone but me started laughing, Justin said, “No, why?”
“Well, that’s a wedding ring isn’t it?” I replied.
“No, it’s a promise ring,” he said.
“Promising what?” I asked, confused.
The others were still laughing, but I didn’t understand why. “What’s so funny?” I asked.
They told me that I always used to tease Justin about pretty much anything. They explained that his promise ring was a formal symbol that he and his girlfriend were going steady, like a pre-engagement ring. I couldn’t understand this reasoning, so I kept asking him why he would wear a wedding ring if he wasn’t married. Everyone seemed to think I was teasing him like I used to, but in fact I was simply trying to understand.
We munched on Johnna’s chocolate chip-pecan cookies and sipped coffee as the Leaches continued to explore what I knew and what I’d forgotten. We also had an interesting exchange about tattoos, during which Johnna showed me the Christian fish on her foot and the cross and dove on her lower back. When I didn’t understand any of the references, she asked some basic questions so she could figure out where to start. Joan had already briefed me that Johnna was a “born-again Christian” and “very spiritual” and tried to explain what that meant. Johnna, she said, talked a lot about how God related to her everyday life, and she also used religion to guide her. Joan, in contrast, kept her belief in God more private.
“Do you know Jesus?” Johnna asked me.
I’d heard the name watching shows and a Catholic mass on TV at Christmas. Remembering Joan’s description that the holiday was to celebrate Jesus Christ’s birth, I said yes, meaning figuratively speaking.
“Do you remember the Bible?”
“Yes,” I said, pretending that I knew exactly what she was talking about, although I’d only heard the word “Bible” on television. That seemed to satisfy her, though, because she didn’t prod me to elaborate, which was a relief. “God,” “Jesus,” and “religion” were all just words to me. It was very difficult for me to grasp such abstract concepts because I couldn’t see or touch them.
After chatting for two hours, we decided that I should try to relax for the rest of the evening, so Randy, Justin, and I said our good-byes by the counter between the kitchen and dining area. Later, Joan and I discussed whether Grant would have shown someone else the same compassion as Justin had that night by coming over with his parents to make sure I was all right. We both agreed that he probably wouldn’t have.
Now that I was feeling a little better, Joan was spending more time sitting with me in my big chair, perhaps because she was realizing that my memory loss was lasting longer than we’d expected and it was time to start showing me her love more openly. She would often massage my head and neck, rub my arms and torso, then curl up in my arms and lay her head on my chest. It felt good having her there, and I now liked the way she touched me.
Even though it was a new sensation for me, Joan told me that we’d cuddled like this many times before. “My favorite spot in the world for the past twenty-seven years is with my head on your chest,” she said.
As she gently caressed me and gazed at me longingly, I could see what she was thinking: I know you are in there, Scott. Please come back to me.
I could also feel the warmth in her touch and the comfort and security she felt when I hugged her back. We’d been kissing a little here and there when my pain medications were working at their peak, and the kisses were becoming more passionate. I’d seen various stages of lovemaking on TV and the movie channels, and I knew that’s what husbands and wives did, but I didn’t really feel moved to go any further, even as I watched her getting in and out of the shower. Why, I wondered, didn’t I feel like I wanted to do that myself?
Joan never said anything, and for now, anyway, she seemed to be satisfied with the kissing and hugging, although I could tell that she truly needed this human interaction. And because I knew my brain injury had taken so much from her, it seemed pretty important to give that to her. I sensed that she needed it to stay strong, to know her husband was still inside there somewhere even though I had changed so much. Even with no basis for comparison, I figured I had to be completely different because I was such a stranger to myself.
“I love you so much,” she’d say.
“I love you too,” I’d reply.
I had no idea what those words truly meant, but I felt that I was supposed to say them back, as I must have done in the past. That said, I was actually feeling some real emotion for her now—I didn’t feel so alone when this little bundle of woman was curled up in my lap. In fact, as I began to realize, this was the only time I didn’t feel alone.
It was hard to watch her weep, though, clearly feeling the loss of the connection we must have shared in the past. I so wanted to remember her and all those intimate moments. How could I not remember this sweet, beautiful woman who was so full of life? She was being so open, sharing all her emotions in her touch, with that soft, warm look of attachment in her eyes. I wanted to rediscover my feelings of love for her so she could see the same warmth in my eyes as I looked back at her, connecting with her and comforting her as she was comforting me. But how?
Joan was on the computer in her office one day, searching for journal articles on the Internet about head injuries and memory loss, still trying to figure out what was wrong with me.
I sat beside her as she searched, and she showed me how she was using a handy tool called Google. I remembered that Dr. Walker had mentioned this in the hospital when he said he’d looked up my past life in the NFL.
“This is a great way to get information if you’re unsure of something or want to know more about it,” she said. “It’s a good resource to the world.”
She walked me through a search using the keyword amnesia, cautioning me that not all websites were reputable and that I should take care to differentiate between sound and unproven medical advice.
I was a slow typist and my spelling wasn’t good, but the great thing about Google is that it corrects your typos, so once I got the hang of it, I used it constantly. Between Google and TV, I was getting a handle on educating myself, and with every search, I felt myself growing a little more independent.
Early on, I searched the web for more details on TV news stories that had piqued my interest, soaking up data about the economy, the stock market crash, the bank bailout measure, our new president, the Bernie Madoff scandal, and the business world in general. Following the lead of my favorite TV news source, I made FoxNews.com my home page.
I joined Joan in trying to research what might have caused my amnesia and the dark area in my right field of vision, neither of which had improved one iota. Along the way I also Googled myself and found yet another way to learn about my past life as a businessman in a way that was not filtered through Joan’s eyes but gave a more neutral and objective perspective from news reporters.
That said, it was ironic that even those news reports were filled with quotes from Joan, who, as my marketing director, had been the spokeswoman for our aviation companies, Legendary Jets, West Jet Management, and West Jet Aircraft. Those stories, in turn, raised more questions that I asked of Joan, who showed me more photos of airplanes, clients, and places we’d flown.
Similarly, I found stories about my college football days, my time in the NFL, and even FamousWhy.com, which listed me as “a famous American football player.” Who knew?
I was happy to discover a whole new avenue of finding information, which seemed endless. The world was slowly opening up to me.
But I still had plenty of questions. I watched Joan put on her makeup and get dressed in the mornings, figuring that if I learned her routine, I would know what mine was supposed to be.
I was puzzled about one thing in particular, however. Why was Joan, who knew enough to find her way around the Internet, so absentminded that she constantly misplaced my pain pills? During my first week home, she’d always bring them to me, even in the middle of the night. But after I started feeling more self-sufficient, I’d get them myself.
When she’d go to the store and I couldn’t find the orange plastic pill containers where I thought I’d left them last, I’d have to wait until she came back to get some relief.
“Where are my pain pills?” I’d ask.
She’d tell me they were behind the plant, out of sight, or in the kitchen drawer with all the pots.
“Why did you put them there?” I’d ask, seeing no rhyme or reason in those particular locations.
“I was cleaning,” she’d say.
I was confused, wondering if this was normal. After this kept happening, it seemed more than coincidental, but not wanting to make waves, I just took note of it.
However, it also didn’t help build trust that she kept leaving the room to make telephone calls. Here I was, struggling to find my place in the house and our family, and she was disappearing to go talk quietly somewhere to who knows who. Was she making plans to leave me? Did she think her job with me was done? Was she making arrangements for someone else to come and take me away?
I started covertly following her into the hallway to listen. That’s when I realized she was mostly confiding in her closest girlfriends, Karen and Johnna.
“I don’t know what we’re going to do,” Joan said. “He doesn’t know the dogs, he doesn’t know his kids, me. Nothing. And I don’t know how to take over the business.”
Once I realized she wasn’t trying to get rid of me, I was relieved. I was also glad that she had people to go to for emotional support when she was frustrated with me, my medical issues, our relationship, or our financial situation. I only wished that I had someone of my own to call because she always seemed happier and better equipped to deal with me once she got off the phone. The only person I really had to talk to about my difficulties was Joan.
But now that I fully understood how much the ramifications of my injury were wearing on her, I tried even harder to hide my emotions and to hold back even more details about what a difficult time I was having. This, however, only fueled my inner turmoil and made me feel increasingly frustrated and ill-tempered. Sometimes it built up so much, I felt like I was going to explode.
One day I teared up as I watched a medical documentary about babies being born, featuring scenes of the father holding his newborn for the first time, crying tears of joy with his wife, and cutting the umbilical cord.
I’ve been there, bringing children into this world, and I want to remember how special it was.
As I felt a mix of emotions overtaking me, I went outside and sat in the lounge chair facing away from the house so Joan couldn’t see me. Hunched over with my elbows on my knees and my face in my hands, I cried for a good five minutes, trying to muffle the sobs so Joan and the neighbors couldn’t hear me. This was a moment I didn’t want to share with anyone—or burden them with. When I was done, I wiped my hands and eyes with my T-shirt and went back to my chair inside, trying to act as if nothing had happened. These outbursts helped release some of my stress, but the relief was only temporary. My well of darkness seemed bottomless.
For obvious reasons, I never told Joan about those moments although I did catch her having one of her own in the shower one morning. Hearing her sobbing, I came in to check on her.
“Are you okay?” I asked, reaching in and rubbing her back.
“Yeah,” she said, trying to hide her face, apparently trying to protect me from seeing her cry just as I’d been trying to protect her. “It’s just hard.”
Sometimes, though, the rage came over me with such force that I was unable to control myself, and I’d snap at whoever wasn’t cooperating with whatever I wanted to do, including the dog.
“Mocha, get outside!” I yelled at our brown Lab. She didn’t understand why I was raising my voice to her, so she peed on the kitchen floor, which only complicated the situation. “Stupid dog!”
At that point Joan jumped in, trying to calm poor Mocha—and me—and mopped up the mess on the tile. “Go sit down, Scott. I’ve got it.”
But the dog didn’t get treated any worse than Joan, Taylor, and Grant—or the rude car insurance agent I cursed out after he wouldn’t listen to my side of the problem.
“That stupid son of a bitch!” I’d mutter loudly, usually after a conversation hadn’t gone well or I’d had difficulty communicating with someone.
After I’d calmed down, Joan told me this was one bad habit that hadn’t changed since my injury, joking that she wished it had. Although I’d been largely nicer and more compassionate since the accident, she said, I was just as short-tempered and even more intense than before the accident. She said we couldn’t be sure, though, if it was me or the pain medication.
I wasn’t immediately cognizant about the reasons for these outbursts, but thinking about them afterward, I realized I was feeling tortured about being lost within myself, not knowing if I was ever going to feel right again. The new Scott was battling with the shadow of the old Scott, whom I pictured as lost somewhere in the crevices of my gray matter. I was supposed to be getting better, but I felt I was actually getting worse in the sense that I still had no memories. Not a single one had come back as the doctors had promised. Meanwhile, I could sense my family was waiting, desperately hoping that the memories would return along with the man they had once counted on, the man Joan described as “the rock,” who seemed to have disappeared into thin air.
The old Scott, Joan said, was a guy who knew what he wanted and would speak his mind, loudly, when the mood struck him, which tended to intimidate people, partly because of his size. I wanted to hear more about this man, whom Joan described as an “alpha male.”
“What’s an alpha male?” I asked.
“Watch the way people react to Tony Soprano,” she said, knowing that The Sopranos was still one of my favorite shows.
Telling me to disregard the Mafia ties, extramarital affairs, and violent problem-solving tactics he often employed, she explained that Tony and I had been uncannily similar in terms of our language and mannerisms and our approach to running the household, even down to buying the same car, a Chevy Suburban. In one episode Tony said something like “It may be 2003 outside, but it’s still 1950 in this house.” Joan said that was true for us too in the old-school way we lived: I’d always brought in most of the money, she’d made decisions about where the kids went to school, and we’d never let Grant and his girlfriend lie kissing on the family room couch.
She also said that although I’d retained Tony’s strong family loyalty, I seemed much more sensitive and emotional these days. She didn’t seem to be making a judgment about it, but I still wasn’t sure I liked the feminine sound of that. I’d heard men on TV say, “Quit acting like a girl,” or “You’re crying like a woman,” and yet that’s what I was doing. I wanted to be more like what my impression of a man was, the strong rescuer who put his fist down and solved everyone’s problems. But at this point I couldn’t even solve my own problems, so I guessed there wasn’t much I could do about that. I was slowly coming to grips with the possibility that the old Scott wasn’t going to reappear, and this was just the way things were going to be.