“How do you know all this?” I asked.
“After Detective Ferras came to tell me that Greg was awake, I researched it.”
My mind came alive. Which was when? Where had Greg been for six months? Why did they wait so long to find us? I wished for a pen and paper so I could write down all my questions. “So if Greg woke up six months ago, why are we only hearing about this now?”
“Two weeks ago, Greg started remembering who he is.”
“So he woke up six months ago with no memory of who he is?” I asked, incredulous. That was a movie plot, not someone’s real life. My real life.
Matt shook his head. “We’ll find out the details from Greg’s doctors. But from what I understand, he didn’t know his name for the first five and a half months.”
“This is all too much. It’s like a soap opera.” I rubbed my forehead, massaging the information into my brain.
I gazed out the window, trying to organize my questions, my thoughts. I had no feelings; I was numb. If Greg was alive, what did I know to be true with certainty? The answer: nothing.
I felt a piercing guilt. I have been living with, loving, and making love to another man while my husband lay in a hospital in another country. Then, I callously divorced him. I motioned for Matt to pull over again, so I could heave my guilt onto the pavement. Once finished, I sat in the gravel and sobbed. Matt rubbed my back gently.
Take me back to New Jersey, I wanted to beg. But I could never go back, not in the same way. Nothing would ever be the same again.
The rehabilitation facility was a gray brick building in a hospital complex. It looked like every other hospital complex I’d ever seen. Matt led the way across the lobby to an information desk. I hung back, staring at my hands, my feet, or the floor. He spoke softly to the receptionist and then motioned for me to follow. I felt seized by panic. Were we going to see Greg? I bent over at the waist, unable to breathe. Matt started toward me, and I felt a pang of pity for the wonderful, quiet man with the sad eyes who seemed to do nothing but comfort me in times of crisis. I held up my hand and motioned for him to give me a moment. He stopped and waited patiently. After a few minutes, we continued down the hall.
“We’re going to a conference room to meet with Greg’s doctors and therapists,” he whispered.
The conference room held a long table and could have been a corporate room at Advent. A projector stood in the corner, and three people sat around the table in oversized plush rolling chairs. The two men and a woman appeared diminutive, like children. They offered kind words, but behind the kindness lay a quiet curiosity; I was a human-interest story. The men introduced themselves as Greg’s neurologist, Dr. Benedict, and his primary physician, Dr. Ludlow.
The woman opened a file. “My name is Dr. Goodman. I am Greg’s cognitive therapist. Greg has four therapists right now. That number will go down later, but I am the best person to speak to Greg’s current state of mind and his abilities, mental, physical, and emotional. I’m sure you understand. This is a terribly emotional event for him.” She spoke in a clinical tone, her voice devoid of any warmth and humanity.
I disliked her instantly. Yes, I’m pretty sure I get that. Terrible, check. Emotional, check. “Can we start at the beginning, please, Dr. Goodman?” I asked, quietly but forcefully.
Dr. Goodman nodded briskly. “Almost two years ago, Greg was robbed at gunpoint on a street in downtown Toronto at ten o’clock at night. Greg fought back, but the man who robbed him pushed him into the street and ran away. He was struck by an oncoming car, and the driver called 911. The driver had seen the altercation before he hit Greg, and he gave a statement to the police. But that’s all we knew of Greg since, with his wallet gone, there was no identification, credit cards, cell phone, or even receipts in his pockets, nothing. He was taken to St. Michael’s Hospital, where he remained in a vegetative state for about nine months. After nine months with virtually no change, he was classified as a permanent vegetative state and transferred here. This is a rehabilitation facility that also acts as a long-term care facility. Eight months ago, Greg started experiencing spontaneous consciousness, sometimes for only minutes or hours, and once for a day. Then about six months ago, he woke fully. At that time, he remembered nothing about himself. Greg’s memory loss was unique in that he retained a semantic memory, which is the ability to perform learned tasks, like reading. However, his episodic memory was gone. That is the portion of memory devoted to life experiences. He remembered nothing—no childhood, no family. He had no idea who the Prime Minister of Canada was or the President of the United States; we asked both, not sure if he was Canadian or American. He can, however, tie his own shoes. This is extraordinary. Most people in PVS for six months or longer must relearn everything. Greg had an astonishing baseline. But he still had no concept of himself. That was our biggest obstacle to progress, as it was very frustrating to him. Frustration hinders progress. Unfortunately, patients with TBI are—”