Crash

In the CT machine I can’t help but think:

I sat in the passenger seat, laughing, recounting the crazy things my former students said to me as I returned to the school as a substitute teacher. Then there was a sound that took my breath away. Crunching. My chest lunged into the seatbelt and my head snapped forward; a roller coaster I never wanted to ride.

“Oh God. Please don’t let this be how it ends.” My head snaps back into the headrest. 

It snaps forward again and back into the headrest as we’re pushed into the car in front of us.. “Stay awake.” It’s devastating intoxication for a man who does not drink, yet the world spins. 

I try to stand to the stretcher using my cane. I can no longer walk. My words come in a familiar halting pattern that I never thought I would hear again since fighting my illness. I attempt to say my birthdate, “August…” The EMT’s look at my license to get their information. 

“He has an autoimmune condition. Neurological. CIDP,” the EMT’s relay to the triage nurse who asks what that is. I exhale, “nervoussystem” all as one word. 

A CT looks for bleeds and X-rays look for broken bones. “Unremarkable.”

The CT machine whirs:

I had eye surgery last month.The day before my surgery I wondered what I would look like once I was healed. Turns out I look like myself. Just a little bit older. I’m okay with that. 

I adopted a kitten after my two cats, my daughters, passed away this year. Little Bridget heals our hearts as she gives kisses.

I am an editorial assistant for the literary journal at Lindenwood University where I am working on my MFA. I did my coursework a day early. That’s good. 

I was called back for a show for a person with an ambulatory mobility disability. 

I received the honor of being on the shortlist for a story I submitted to a literary journal. 

I was in a car accident. I’m in the machine because we were rear-ended by a car. 

Life didn’t flash before my eyes. Perhaps that’s only for those who don’t make it. Those who survive flash on the past as they look forward through the darkness. 

Neurological trauma. Central Nervous System. No bleeds.

I’m home at my dining room table in my wheelchair at my computer now to say hello. 

I cannot speak.

I have my tools to combat this. My iPhone has an Augmentative and Alternative Communication application. A little Bluetooth speaker from Target to project my computerized voice at my side. I’ve been here before. 

On Thursday, I returned to my former school to substitute, rolling past my old classroom.

I preprogrammed a message: “I’m still the same Mr. S you all know. My voice is just a little different.” 

They hug me. “We love you Mr. S.” 

I mouth back, “I love you all, too.”

Fall went by sorrowfully quickly. Winter on its heels. Bridget sleeps by my side. People ask me questions.

It takes a while to respond with fluttering fingers: “give me time.”