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One of my nicest earliest memories is of a young man, Jeremy, who came in my room in CVICU to ask me a bunch of inane questions. Apparently being asked inane questions is a habitual procedure for stroke patients.
Now I am not exactly sure what type of therapist Jeremy is. He could be an occupational therapist or a physical therapist or any other several types of therapists that I have been introduced to. All I remember is that he was young, good looking and his sole purpose in life is to sadistically mess up my day. Okay, that last statement is not completely fair, but you can decide for yourself. Here is my memory of our first meeting—apparently it was not our first, but I do not recall the others.
He comes in all smiles and asks me how I’m doing. Hmmmm, let’s see. I have numerous tubes running from my chest, arm, neck, leg, and bladder. I am hooked up to a ventilator to help me breathe, which only allows me to talk in spurts—kind of like Christopher Reeve in his interviews after his accident. How do you think I’m doing? “Good,” I answered with a small smile. What follows is a fairly accurate recollection of our time together that day.
“Do you know your name?” He begins his interrogation.
“Yes.”
“Do you know where you are?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“In the…(had to wait here for more air from the ventilator)…hospital.”
“What is your name?”
“Heather Ruth…Yost. Maiden…name…Simmons.”
“Good. Do you know what year this is?”
“’07.”
“Good. Is that 1997 or 2007?”
I said nothing while I contemplated the correct answer for a while.
“Is is 1997?” he was very persistent and noisy.
“Yes.”
“No. It is 2007,” replied the know-it-all.
“Yes.”
“Do you know who the President is?”
“George…W…Bush” I breathed out when the ventilator allowed.
“Good. And who was president before him?”
“Clinton,” I whispered smirking. I could still remember he cheated on his wife, even if I couldn’t remember the year.
“Good. Do you know who that is?” He pointed to my mother sitting on the opposite side of my bed.
“Yes.”
“Who is she?” like I said very persistent and noisy. Apparently he didn’t believe me.
“My mom…Rexann…Stefanie…Tibbs.”
“Is that your mom’s last name?” He waited a bit while I contemplated this. “Is Tibbs your mom’s last name?”
“Simmons.”
“Good. What year is it?”
“’07.”
“Is that 1997?”
“Yes.”
“No, it’s 2007.”
“Yes.”
Okay, so I didn’t know the date and had temporarily forgotten that my mom hadn’t used her maiden name in over thirty years. But I knew who I was. That should count for something, right? He left shortly after this conversation. It took too much energy to talk. I’m sure he noticed, because I’m sure I fell asleep on him at least once. However, just like a teenage pimple he always came back. No matter how many times he came in to see me that week, I don’t think I ever got that decade question right that week. Each and every time I got that question wrong. However, knowing the year could not have mattered all that much, because by the next week, I had graduated to playing memory games with Jeremy. The words “chair, river, bird” will forever be burned into my brain. Here is another one of our wonderfully amusing conversations.
“I see you’re off the ventilator. You must be feeling stronger,” he remarked one day almost two weeks into my stay.
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’m going to tell you three words. Try to remember these words, okay? They are chair, river and bird. Say them after me.”
He was getting pretty bossy by this point. “Chair…umm…chair…” I forgot.
“Chair, river, bird.”
“Chair, river bird.”
“Very good. Now remember those three words.”
At this point he spent some time talking about graduating to brushing my teeth at the sink soon. I just had the catheter removed, my leg looked like a butcher went berserk and butterflied my leg open, and I hadn’t even stood up on my own since the surgery. Right like I’m going to drag all the monitors and the two towers of IV bags to brush my teeth. I can’t really even feed myself—though I was not eating from a cart; I was still being fed intravenously. Not to mention that my left hand was almost completely useless. That arm was clamped off during the surgeries and its size rivaled that of any NFL offensive lineman. For all you girly girls out there it was bloated, puffy and huge. Right brushing my own teeth was not on my short list of goals to accomplish. Have I distracted you enough yet?
Without looking back, can you remember the three words? No cheating. Yeah, well good for you. Try having a stroke and do it. I failed at it. Jeremy asked me if I remembered the three words from when he first arrived in the room.
“Yes. Chair…chair…Chair.”
“Do you remember the second word?”
Obviously not, or else I would have said it. But I replied, “no.”
“Do you know what runs through these two towns? Do you know what separates Marysville from Yuba City?”
“Feather River.”
“Good.” I really think I impressed him with this—especially since I apparently still did not know the year. ”The second word is river. Can you tell me the three words now?”
“Chair, Feather River…” again another pause.
“No, the second word is just river. Just chair then river.”
“Okay. Chair, Feather River…”
“Just river. The order is chair, river and bird. What are the three words again?” he asked.
“Chair, Feather River, bird,” I proudly proclaimed.
“No, Heather. Not Feather River, just river. The three words are chair, river, bird. Okay?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. What are the three words?”
“Chair, Feather River, bird.”
I’m not sure how long this went on, but I know that it went on at least this long and probably a while longer. Jeremy was not easily satisfied; he was rather difficult to be around in my opinion.
After he left my room, I swore to myself that he would not trick me again. I laid in that bed repeating chair, river, bird…chair, river, bird…it became my new mantra. I was ready. I had it down. The next day, Jeremy walked in all smug like the know-it-all he was. I did not even let him get out a word. I just blasted him with, “Chair, river, bird.” Oh yeah, that’s right. He barely had one foot in the room and I told him. This time his face took on a look of pure confusion. He had the audacity to tell me that he had no idea what I was talking about. The nerve. I told him that those were the three words he gave me last time.
Do you know what he did? Nothing. We worked on something else. Cute or not, he does not know how to treat a girl.
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