“I’m sorry,” I interrupted. “What are TBI and PVS?”
“TBI stands for ‘Traumatic Brain Injury.’ That is what caused Greg’s PVS, which is ‘Persistent Vegetative State.’ You might call it a coma. They are essentially the same thing with some minor technical differences.” She shrugged nonchalantly.
Her blasé demeanor unnerved me. So casual, so laid-back. I wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her. “So where is he now? Can I see him?” I clutched the arms of the chair, my nails digging into the fabric. Impatient with their explanations and stories, I needed simply to see him, to verify with my own eyes that the man they were talking about was, in fact, my husband.
They exchanged glances, secretly communicating with their eyes. I felt like a pariah.
One of the men cleared his throat. “Claire…” I was surprised at his use of my first name, as if we were friends. “We think you should listen to the entire story before you see him. So you understand what to expect at this point.”
“Okay, fine. What should I expect?” I realized that my leg was shaking, bouncing, really, with nervous energy I couldn’t contain. Taking a deep breath, I forced my leg still with my hand and sat back in the chair, willing my body to appear relaxed.
Dr. Goodman turned to a new page in the file. “Greg has been in physical, occupational, and cognitive therapy for six months. A month ago, he moved to a group home, which is a government-funded housing specifically for patients with TBI in various stages of recovery. It’s the first step toward independence and reintroduction back into society. It teaches things like cooperative living, basic sharing skills, and relating and interactive skills. Now, fortunately in Greg’s case, he did pretty well with that. Like I said, his semantic memory is astonishing. It is probably the reason for his quick recovery.”
“Greg had a nearly photographic memory,” I replied, tracing a scratch on the table. “He was a corporate trainer, and he never needed notes, never forgot names or faces.”
Dr. Goodman made an ah sound and nodded, as if my comment had made everything magically make sense. “Claire…” She cleared her throat, transitioning her clinical lecture to a more personal tone. “Two weeks ago, Greg was walking down the street, and he was drawn to a real estate office by the name on the shingle. He went into the office and was given a business card.”
She pushed a business card across the table. The thick paper was worn and creased, dog-eared and soft around the edges. A bit of dirt was smudged across the front, as though someone had repeatedly run a soiled finger over the lettering. Claire Barnes, Toronto Realty. Guiding you home! Call us now for a free evaluation!
Dr. Goodman continued, “He became so agitated in the realtor’s office that they had to call the therapist at the group home to come and get him. He didn’t sleep for forty-eight hours, so we had to give him a mild sedative. When he woke up almost a full day later, he remembered his name and you. The nurse on duty found you on the internet and called the police, who called Detective Reynolds. That was three days ago.”
“So where is he now?” I asked again.
“He’s down the hall,” Dr. Goodman said. I must have appeared to jump out of my chair because she up held her hand. “There are a few more things you should know. First, he is not the man you married, most assuredly. We did not know him before, but we have yet to meet a TBI patient who is the same person before and after an accident. Parts of his brain no longer function well, in the same way, or at all. You must understand that. Secondly, he will not look the same. He has essentially been lying down for two years. His muscles atrophied. In addition, patients in PVS can actually become significantly shorter. This is because when you don’t use your back muscles, your bones will weaken, and your spine will irreversibly contract. I know from his medical records here that he was a significantly taller man prior to the accident.”
Greg used to be a large man, tall and broad, seeming to absorb all the empty space in a room. Whenever I thought of Greg, I thought of the breadth of his chest, the solidarity of his body and his voice, which boomed with self-assurance.
“Third, you may hear people call him Glen. When he woke up, he didn’t have a name, and he had no family here to tell him his name. A name is a large part of an identity. Someone, a nurse I think, gave him a baby naming book and asked him to go through it. I suggested he look for a name that jumped out at him. He picked Glen. Knowing his name is actually Greg, that makes a great deal of sense. They’re so similar. I suspect that he will revert to Greg because he identifies with his old life. He remembers you, his mother, his daughter Hannah, and your parents.” She looked questioningly at me to confirm that these people did, in fact, exist.