IT HAD BEEN about six weeks since the accident, and I was starting to go stir-crazy at home, so Joan and I decided it was time for me to go someplace other than the doctor’s office. I wanted to contribute to the household, and although I wasn’t sure exactly how, a trip to the grocery store seemed like a good start. Still, just the thought of completing this simple task, which most people took for granted, filled me with dread before we even pulled up to the Safeway near our house.
Although I’d seen supermarkets on television, I still wondered what it would look like inside. Would I be able to tell I was in a grocery store? Or, worse yet, would I see people I used to know and have to deal with the awkward situation of not recognizing them?
I gripped Joan’s hand tightly, but she had to break away to pull a cart from a long row of them. Right away the place seemed unfamiliar, and I felt lost amid the stacks of cans and boxes surrounding me. I started to push the cart as if I were trying to help Joan, when in fact I was really just trying to stay close to her, my trusted human security blanket.
We passed a display with bouquets of flowers near the entrance and started walking up and down the aisles, where I watched her take items from the shelves and toss them into the cart. I’d never seen most of the items she was choosing, and I was feeling overstimulated with being in a new environment. I wanted to be of help, but I also felt I needed to venture off and clear my head.
“Is there anything I can grab?” I asked.
“Why don’t you go get a bag of potato chips from the next aisle?” she suggested, as if that should be an easy task for me to handle.
The problem was I had no idea what a bag of potato chips looked like, though surely, I told myself, I would recognize one when I saw it. Well, I found the correct aisle all right, but I wasn’t anticipating there would be more than fifty different types, sizes, and brands, all of which said “Potato Chips.” Not knowing what else to do, I started pacing back and forth, scanning each bag and storing the label in my empty memory bank to try to properly evaluate each one. Barbecue, salt and vinegar, cheddar, onion, garlic, ruffled, baked, and low fat. If I didn’t know what any of these tasted like, how was I supposed to choose? Feeling so unequipped to make such a simple decision made it even more difficult to do so. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead as I told myself that Joan was counting on me to make the right choice and I was going to fail. Just then she came around the corner.
“Honey, just grab a bag,” she said, as if there was no wrong choice.
“How do you choose?”
“Just choose whichever one you want,” she said.
I grabbed the red, white, and blue jumbo bag of chips with the ridges, called Ruffles, because I liked the colors on the bag and the look of the chips’ rippled edges. I had no idea that it was a brand we usually didn’t choose, but I did notice that Joan didn’t correct me. Only later did she tell me that we usually bought the healthier baked chips these days. I felt dejected. Everyone else on that aisle had made his or her choice so easily. The trip was just one more reminder that I didn’t know anything about the outside world.
While we were waiting in the checkout line, I walked over and grabbed a cellophane-wrapped dozen red roses from the flower display. I’d seen Anthony buy these for Taylor on her birthday, and I’d seen plenty of men on TV do the same for their wives or girlfriends. Joan had been doing so much for me, I thought it would be nice to give her these as a token of my appreciation.
As I handed them to her, she teared up. “Thank you, I love you,” she said, giving me a hug and a kiss right there in line. That’s when I realized it didn’t take much to please Joan. My small gesture had cost only ten dollars.
Now that I was feeling a little better, I wanted to be more helpful around the house. Joan showed me how to pay our bills online, which I then started to do on my own. I knew from overhearing her conversations that she was worried about money, but I didn’t like it when she told me I’d used the wrong credit card to pay a bill that charged no interest or penalty before paying one that did or when she said we couldn’t buy something that I wanted her to have.
We’d be in a department store, for example, and she’d see an item that she liked for herself or Taylor.
“I want those shoes,” she’d say.
“Well, then, just buy them,” I’d say.
“We don’t want to spend the money now because we’re still trying to figure things out,” she’d reply.
She’d already told me that I’d been the primary provider for our family, and from watching The Sopranos I knew that the man of the house was supposed to say these things to his wife, so this made me feel like less of a man. Worthless. Stripped of the power I used to have, lacking my own identity, and unable to provide for my family like I used to. I didn’t think Joan was trying to make me feel this way, but at times her remarks were hard to take.
Then one day I overheard her talking on the phone to Anita, our bookkeeper. Of course, I could hear only one side of the conversation, but I tried to piece things together.
“Anita, relax, we’ll get it figured out,” Joan said. “We’re not in panic mode yet. You need to calm down and get a grip here.”
After she hung up I came in to find out what was going on.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
Joan broke down crying as she explained that Anita was concerned that our bills were piling up but no new money was coming in. She’d asked Joan how we wanted her to handle the situation, and Joan tried to tell her that we were waiting to see what happened with my memory, hoping that I could get back to work one day soon. Joan told me I’d been close to finalizing a deal, but she couldn’t find any of the paperwork because I’d apparently kept all the details in my head. Meanwhile, she was trying to make some sales by following up with other potential clients.
I didn’t know how to respond—I obviously couldn’t retrieve the details of that deal now—but I tried to do what I could to reassure her. “We’ll get it figured out,” I said. “We’ll be okay.”
Our financial troubles, not to mention the sad state of the economy, caused me to reflect even more on the material objects I saw around the house. I wondered not only why we needed all these expensive baubles but also whether we should start selling them—my watches and some of the cars, for a start. I also noticed that Joan wore a very nice diamond ring on her wedding finger and a beautiful diamond tennis bracelet on her right wrist.
“Tell me about this ring and bracelet,” I said.
Joan was only too happy to tell me about them, saying that we’d had a custom jewelry designer make the ring several years ago. I’d already replaced the small diamond I’d bought for our engagement with a 1.5-carat marquis diamond some years ago. More recently, we’d had that same diamond placed into a new platinum setting with twelve new smaller diamonds, six on either side.
She said I’d purchased the tennis bracelet, a string of six carats’ worth of diamonds that shined so brilliantly, to congratulate her for completing her master’s degree of science leadership at Grand Canyon University. I was amazed at how proud she sounded as she told me about the gift, which I had given her on graduation day when she was still wearing her cap and gown.
“You are the least selfish person that I’ve ever known, and you’ve always been happier when you buy something nice for someone in the family than when you buy something for yourself,” she said.
It was wonderful to hear how much the bracelet meant to her, but I couldn’t help wondering if I would ever be in a financial position again to show my love in the same way—by purchasing a special gift for the woman who meant the most to me.
In the third week of January Joan and I went to St. Joseph’s Hospital and Medical Center in Phoenix for an EEG, a test that measures the brain’s electrical activity, to see if we could get some answers. Rather than follow up with Goodell from the hospital, we’d decided to seek a neurologist at Barrow, because it specialized in brain injuries. Dr. Terry Fife, whose daughter was on Taylor’s cheerleading team, ordered the EEG and also referred me to a memory specialist and a neuropsychologist for more tests. Although I still hoped that my memory would come back, I was starting to prepare myself for the possibility that it wouldn’t.
As if I didn’t have enough problems already, the clerk at the check-in desk called me over a few minutes after she entered the information from my medical insurance card into the computer. “Your coverage has expired,” she said.
Joan and I looked at each other, shocked.
“There’s no way,” I said. “That can’t be right. Are you sure?” This didn’t make sense because we’d just gotten a prescription filled.
The clerk said yes, unfortunately, but we could pay for the $895 test in cash, if we wanted, and submit the bill to the insurance company for reimbursement.
“No,” Joan said, “we’re going to have to figure this out. We’ll reschedule and come back.”
Joan and I went out to the car in the parking garage, where she tried to reach the people who had bought West Jet Aircraft (WJA) back in February 2008. Joan said she clearly remembered that they were supposed to have paid our premiums through February as part of the deal. It was late in the day and these people lived in Florida, so we knew it was unlikely we’d reach them, but we waited for half an hour, hoping they’d respond to our voicemail. We finally gave up and went home to search for the sale paperwork in my office, where we found proof in my desk drawer that Joan was correct.
That night Joan mentioned that an insurance broker named Jerry Pinto had set up our group health insurance plan when we still owned WJA, and we should give him a call. Joan had mentioned Jerry earlier when explaining the concept of “best friends” and said that he and I had been close for twenty years, ever since my financial planning days in Chicago. She’d also mentioned a guy named Mark Hyman, who lived in Scottsdale, and my college teammates, Phil Herra and Brendan Dolan, who lived in Chicago but whom I didn’t talk to as often. Jerry, Phil, and Mark had called since my accident, she said, and so had my cousin Brad, but with everything that had been going on, Brad and Phil were the only ones she’d called back. I hadn’t wanted to talk to anyone, so she’d been saving all the important phone messages for when I felt well enough to listen to them.
Now that I had a pressing reason to talk to Jerry, I decided to give him a call, but I was dreading it because I still didn’t feel I could carry on an intelligent conversation with anyone. I would have preferred to simply say, “Joan needs your help resolving this insurance problem,” and hand the phone over to her.
When Jerry answered, I spoke in the slow and deliberate phone manner I’d unknowingly been using since the accident. “Hello, Jerry Pinto, this is Scott Bolzan.”
Unaware that I wasn’t being my usual teasing self, Jerry replied in a similarly slow and deliberate voice. “Hello, Scott Bolzan, this is Jerry Pinto. How can I help you?”
The old Scott, I’m told, would have responded with equal sarcasm, but the new Scott was taken aback by Jerry’s tone. When I briefly told him I’d had an accident and lost my memory, Jerry was immediately apologetic. “Scotto, I’m really sorry. What the hell happened?”
I gave him a few more details, explaining that I didn’t remember him. There was a long pause as Jerry digested the news.
“Well, we’re best friends and we always will be,” he said.
“Yeah, Joan mentioned that,” I said. “That’s why I’m calling.”
“Do you want me to come out there?” he asked. “I’ll hop on a plane if there’s anything at all I can do for you.”
“No, not at this point,” I said.
That was a nice gesture. We must have been good friends if he’s willing to fly here on a moment’s notice.
Antsy to get off the phone, I tried to wrap it up, asking Jerry to help Joan resolve our insurance problems while my brain healed. “It would mean a lot to me if you took good care of her,” I said, happily turning the phone over to Joan.
Jerry said he’d get in touch with the people who bought my company, and within a day or two he and Joan were able to persuade the buyers to pay that month’s premium.
Once we got the insurance sorted out, we went back for my EEG. The technician attached a bunch of electrodes on suction cups to my scalp, and even though I had a headache at the time, he said I had to lie flat.
“How long is this test going to take?” I asked, grimacing inside.
“Twenty-five minutes,” he said, setting a timer and leaving the room while I lay there, practically counting the minutes, in pain.
When the results came back, it was the same story all over again—they couldn’t detect any abnormal activity. It seemed that no one could tell us what was wrong with my brain, why my memories still had not returned, and why this relentless pain would not let up. When, I wondered in frustration, will these doctors do a test that will actually diagnose my problem so they can treat me and let me return to my normal life?
In addition to this frustration, I was also dealing with the constant annoyance of tripping over things I couldn’t see with my right eye. This often happened if I turned a corner to the right, so I started having to remember to look down more when I walked. I’ve got enough to deal with, and now this.
The new owners let our insurance lapse again the following month, but thankfully, Jerry was able to get us new group insurance through Legendary Jets for $1,200 a month. Meanwhile, with me still clueless about how to run my business, Joan had to start looking for a new job. We not only needed cheaper insurance, our finances were in a shambles.
Determined to be more independent and also to overcome my anxiety issues with the grocery store, I decided to take a spin over there by myself in my 2007 BMW 750Li.
I took the set of keys from the center console and put the flat plastic one into a horizontal slot in the dash as I’d seen Joan do, only the lights on the dash came on but the car didn’t start. After all this time driving with my wife, I realized that I must not have actually watched her start the car. I sat puzzled at my inability to determine what I was doing wrong. Reluctantly, I had to go inside and ask her for help. “Could you come out here with me?”
“Is everything okay?” she asked worriedly as she followed me outside.
“Just one problem. How the hell do you start this?”
I could tell by her expression that she was nervous about my getting behind the wheel. I knew what she was thinking: If you can’t start the car, how are you going to drive it? After she showed me what to do—put my foot on the brake and simultaneously push the Start button on the dash—I thanked her and shut the door before she could stop me from going.
I didn’t realize how much of a problem my vision deficiency was going to be until I tried to back the vehicle out of the single-car door of our three-car garage. The vehicle had only four inches of clearance on either side, so my lack of peripheral vision to the right posed a challenge.
I backed out slowly and, realizing that I was cutting it too close, had to pull forward to straighten out and try again. I could see Joan standing in the doorway, watching to make sure I didn’t hit anything, but I was determined to do this right. I finally made it out, turned the car in the driveway, and headed out to the street.
It felt weird driving this car, knowing that I had driven it hundreds of times and yet feeling as if it was the first time. But even weirder—and a welcome surprise—was that I had retained my procedural memory. Maybe it was in a different part of my brain. I still knew I was supposed to hit the brakes to stop and the accelerator to go forward. I knew that at a stoplight, green meant go and red meant stop. I also knew what a stop sign was. Even so, the brakes seemed very touchy, and because Joan had set the seat and the mirrors to fit her small frame, I had to pull over just past our driveway to make some adjustments and settle down for a moment or two.
You can do this. Just relax. Take your time. There’s not a lot of traffic. I wish I could have kept the memories of my wife instead of remembering how to drive.
The center of the dash displayed a navigation screen for the GPS system, which I had watched Joan use a number of times. I figured it would come in handy in due time, once I learned how to use it. But I also knew I didn’t need it for this short jaunt because the supermarket was so close—a simple right turn at the end of our street, another right turn, then a straight shot for about half a mile. Still, in an abundance of caution, I decided to follow the same routine from my last trip there with Joan.
I drove about forty miles per hour to the store, five miles under the speed limit, and parked the car in the exact same spot. Taking a deep breath, I walked inside, grabbed a cart, and examined the list of items at the end of each aisle to get an overall sense of the layout for next time.
When I finally made it to the cereal section, I picked up two boxes of Quaker Oats Granola. Joan said I liked the stuff; she wrote the name down for me and even told me where to find it on the top shelf. I was sick of eating oatmeal every morning.
After ten minutes of roaming around with my cart, I still had no more than the cereal. I got in the checkout line behind the other shoppers, whose carts were full, and when it was my turn I put my two boxes on the conveyor belt.
“Why didn’t you use the fifteen-items-or-less line?” the checkout girl asked.
I didn’t have a suitable answer for her, so I just shrugged.
“Do you have your Safeway card?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“Punch in your phone number,” she offered, unaware, obviously, that I didn’t remember that either.
“You know what? Forget about that,” I said. “Let’s just ring it up.”
I was a little embarrassed and felt like I was in one of Taylor’s favorite movies, which we had watched recently, Baby’s Day Out, where the baby hero heads out for the first time alone into the real world. But all in all, I had done okay for myself. Other than choosing the wrong checkout lane, I had made a successful trip to the grocery store.
When I arrived home safely, I felt as if I had just climbed Mount Everest. Joan could probably tell how proud of myself I was because she seemed happy for me too.
“You made it back,” she said, smiling with obvious relief.
“Of course I did,” I said. “Even I could do this.”
That said, I didn’t know if Joan was happier that I’d managed to find my way home or that I’d managed not to hit the garage door as I pulled in.