My Life, Deleted (7 page)

Depending on how bad my headache was and also on how much information I'd already taken in that day, I'd either say “yes” or “not right now.”

One day I was going through some stuff in my office when I came across two quilted binders on a shelf.

“What are those?” I asked Joan.

Joan said they contained Grant's and Taylor's early childhood photos and mementos, compiled in a personalized album made by a friend of my mother's. Taryn's was in the safe.

“Do you want to see the baby photos?” she asked.

I agreed, thinking this would be a good way to learn about my kids, my life as a father and husband, and more about the child we'd lost. Joan pulled the two scrapbooks off the shelf, then punched in the combination on the safe to retrieve Taryn's album. She breathed a deep sigh as she pulled it out and held it with great affection as she placed it with the others on the ottoman in front of my big chair.

We sat in my chair together as Joan slowly turned the eight-by-ten-inch pages documenting my children's beginnings. Even though Taryn had been born first, we started with Grant. It was clear from Joan's reaction going through the ornaments, and now this, that Taryn's would be the toughest for her to get through.

The front of Grant's album featured a photo of him as a newborn, wearing a tiny skullcap. The picture was framed with a series of progressively larger rectangles, covered in soft white cotton with a pattern of little pastel-colored numbers and football icons, similar to an athletic shirt, and bordered with blue lace.

Inside, two ultrasound images were mounted on the first page.

“You can see inside where Grant was growing,” Joan said, but I was baffled.

As she described how the baby grew in her stomach, I was able to conceptualize the idea, but I still couldn't make out the actual shape of the baby in all those black and gray shadows. I also had a hard time figuring out how the baby came out, although I didn't ask because I was trying to build trust with this woman and I didn't want her to think, “How do you not know this?”

Next came a page with four hospital bracelets, two each for Grant and Joan. For once, I actually knew what these were because I'd worn one myself. There were also photos of a much younger Joan with brown hair, and me standing behind her with my hand on her pregnant belly.

When we got to the photos of Grant's christening, Joan tried to explain in simple terms what that was all about, but religion was somewhat complicated for me to understand, so I just nodded.

Taylor's album was more feminine, covered with bright red cotton and a border of white frilly lace, her name and birth date stitched in red and blue in the center of a heart. It too contained ultrasound images, hospital bracelets, and newborn photos.

I enjoyed watching Joan's face light up as she showed me a photo of her smiling as two-and-a-half-year-old Grant kissed her beach-ball-size stomach. I could see how special and sweet that moment must have been for all of us.

One photo featured me cutting something attached to Taylor's belly in the hospital. “What is that?” I asked. “It looks like a rope.”

“That's the umbilical cord,” Joan explained. “That's how the baby is connected to the mother and gets its food and oxygen.”

“Did I want to do that?”

“Yes, that's what fathers do.”

In Taylor's christening photo, she wore a white silk gown as she sat propped up against a pillow on the couch. She was sandwiched between two-and-a-half-year-old Grant, dressed in a suit and tie, and his slightly older cousin, Sydney, both of them holding Taylor's hands. There was also a photo of her white sheet cake, with
Congratulations, Taylor
etched in pink icing.

Finally, on the last page, there was a photo of me, my mouth wide open, laughing, and holding a girl's shoe that was covered in mud. Joan chuckled as she told me the story of how my twelve-year-old niece, Jamie, had gotten stuck in the mud and lost her shoe the day of Taylor's christening while trying to fetch a ball in the back of our house. I'd gone after her, rescued her and the shoe, and ended up covered in mud.

It did us both good to laugh and appreciate the humor of the situation. It made me feel closer to Joan when we could share the same emotion in the present, particularly when it involved something from our past. That said, it was still difficult when Joan started tearing up because I felt that I was supposed to be weeping too, only I usually didn't feel the same level of sadness.

That was not the case as we looked through Taryn's album. We both cried as Joan turned the pages, especially when we got to the photos of our baby girl, her eyes closed and her face and tiny body marked with purple patches, a pattern called lividity that I learned forms when the heart stops pumping and blood pools at the lowest point of gravity. The celluloid pages contained a locket of her hair, her teeny footprints, her birth certificate, and finally two photos of her grave, taken on different trips. One of them showed a bronze vase of fresh sunflowers, petunias, and calla lilies and the other a collection of balloons and flower baskets.

I now had the story of the ornaments and these photos to help put the memory of Taryn together, but I still had no emotional attachment to our firstborn child. And that only made me feel more confused, lost, and empty. I could see Joan's grief, which still seemed so raw, when she talked about our first daughter. I wanted to feel that same pain again because she'd explained how we'd shared it over the years and how it had strengthened the bond between us. Unlike my headaches, this wasn't a pain I would dread or merely endure. This was one I would welcome.

Chapter 6

A
FEW DAYS
into the new year, Joan walked the phone into the living room, where I was watching TV and nursing a whopper of a headache, and told me that my friend Phil Herra wanted to say a few words.

We had just received a Christmas card from Phil and his family, picturing his wife, Linda, his two sons and two daughters, and their springer spaniel. Joan had explained that Phil was an old college football teammate and had been one of the four groomsmen at our wedding. She also showed me his photo in our wedding album, which was on the shelf next to the baby scrapbooks. When I'd gone into financial planning after college, he'd spent a year teaching and then went into industrial sales. The Herras were the only couple we'd stayed close friends with since college.

The couple routinely called us after the first of every year to wish us a Happy New Year and a Merry Christmas, but this year was different. Joan had spoken with Linda several times since my accident, keeping her and Phil apprised of my progress and how Joan and I were doing.

After showing Joan my “I really don't want to do this” face, I reluctantly spoke with Phil. Joan had already described him as an enthusiastically vocal man, who at six feet three inches and two hundred and ninety pounds had the type of voice that carried for miles. So I was surprised to hear him on the phone, sounding mild mannered and speaking in a soft, gentle voice, as if he knew this was going to be difficult for me. He also sounded very positive, which I appreciated.

“How are you feeling, Bossy?” Phil asked.

Joan had told me that my NIU teammates had nicknamed me Bossy during my freshman year after I and the five other freshman offensive linemen were told to shave our heads. With my bald scalp, I reminded my teammates of Curly in the Three Stooges movie where he enters a cow-milking contest in a boxing-ring setting, with
K.O. Bossy
printed on the back of his satin robe. The nickname had stuck, apparently.

“I had an accident and hit my head, and I have a bad headache,” I replied. “I apologize for not knowing who you are.”

Before I handed the phone back to Joan, Phil reassured me that this was a temporary situation from which I'd fully recover.

“If anyone is going to be okay, it's going to be you,” he said.

After hearing about my accident, our friends Randy and Johnna Leach offered to bring over a home-cooked meal so Joan would have one less thing to worry about. On a day when my pain seemed to be under control, we invited them over. Joan and I thought it would be a good idea for me to interact with friends with whom I felt safe.

Beforehand, Joan showed me their photos and told me we'd met them at one of Grant's motocross events in January 2003, where their son, Justin, had been in wheel-to-wheel competition with our son. Joan said our sons were rivals, but we had been able to put that aside because the Leaches were open, friendly, and animated people, and we enjoyed each other's company.

When Randy and Johnna arrived at six o'clock—with Justin as a late addition—I must have greeted them with a blank stare because Johnna mentioned it later in the evening. “When we walked in the door, did you feel a familiarity?” she asked, never one, as she put it, to “ignore the elephant in the room.”

“With you guys there's no memory, but there's a feeling of being comfortable,” I replied carefully, not wanting to hurt their feelings.

That much was true. I could tell that I was comfortable having them in my house because Joan, my barometer for whether I liked someone, seemed fine.

Johnna had cooked up some cheese manicotti with salad and garlic bread. While we men headed into the dining room and sat down, the women heated up the main dish, set the table, and filled our glasses with Coke and Diet Coke. I didn't know how manicotti would taste, but Joan and Johnna had discussed what I would like in advance. The Percocet often diminished my appetite, so Joan put small portions on my plate.

Randy, who is about six feet tall with salt-and-pepper hair—and, as Johnna likes to say, is strikingly handsome—teased his wife in his southern drawl that the manicotti didn't have enough sauce. Johnna, an attractive blonde who stood five feet five inches in heels, replied, “Kiss my ass.”

The way she said this was funny, so I laughed. I'd heard TV characters use this same phrase in a mean way or to start a fight, but she was being playful. I looked over at Joan and was relieved to see that she was laughing too, because this was the kind of banter we usually exchanged—even more so, I was told, in the old days. I'd been noticing lately that the same word or phrase could mean different things in different situations, and sometimes I used the wrong word at the wrong time. Other times I knew what I wanted to say but couldn't retrieve the right word, which I learned was called aphasia.

From this joking around, I could see the evening was off to a good start. The Leaches told me stories about Grant and Justin racing together and how Randy and I always parked our RVs next to each other. Justin, who had a good-looking mix of his mother's and father's features, recounted how we used to go to dinner and a movie after a long day of practice runs at the track, trying to relax before a big race.

They seemed worried that I didn't remember anything they were describing, but that didn't stop them from trying. Johnna was sweet but persistent as she kept looking for a trigger, as if she believed that by asking me “Don't you remember this?” enough times, my memory would suddenly return.

Seeing the silver band on Justin's left hand, I asked, “So, you're married?”

When everyone but me started laughing, Justin said, “No, why?”

“Well, that's a wedding ring isn't it?” I replied.

“No, it's a promise ring,” he said.

“Promising what?” I asked, confused.

The others were still laughing, but I didn't understand why. “What's so funny?” I asked.

They told me that I always used to tease Justin about pretty much anything. They explained that his promise ring was a formal symbol that he and his girlfriend were going steady, like a pre-engagement ring. I couldn't understand this reasoning, so I kept asking him why he would wear a wedding ring if he wasn't married. Everyone seemed to think I was teasing him like I used to, but in fact I was simply trying to understand.

We munched on Johnna's chocolate chip-pecan cookies and sipped coffee as the Leaches continued to explore what I knew and what I'd forgotten. We also had an interesting exchange about tattoos, during which Johnna showed me the Christian fish on her foot and the cross and dove on her lower back. When I didn't understand any of the references, she asked some basic questions so she could figure out where to start. Joan had already briefed me that Johnna was a “born-again Christian” and “very spiritual” and tried to explain what that meant. Johnna, she said, talked a lot about how God related to her everyday life, and she also used religion to guide her. Joan, in contrast, kept her belief in God more private.

“Do you know Jesus?” Johnna asked me.

I'd heard the name watching shows and a Catholic mass on TV at Christmas. Remembering Joan's description that the holiday was to celebrate Jesus Christ's birth, I said yes, meaning figuratively speaking.

“Do you remember the Bible?”

“Yes,” I said, pretending that I knew exactly what she was talking about, although I'd only heard the word “Bible” on television. That seemed to satisfy her, though, because she didn't prod me to elaborate, which was a relief. “God,” “Jesus,” and “religion” were all just words to me. It was very difficult for me to grasp such abstract concepts because I couldn't see or touch them.

After chatting for two hours, we decided that I should try to relax for the rest of the evening, so Randy, Justin, and I said our good-byes by the counter between the kitchen and dining area. Later, Joan and I discussed whether Grant would have shown someone else the same compassion as Justin had that night by coming over with his parents to make sure I was all right. We both agreed that he probably wouldn't have.

Now that I was feeling a little better, Joan was spending more time sitting with me in my big chair, perhaps because she was realizing that my memory loss was lasting longer than we'd expected and it was time to start showing me her love more openly. She would often massage my head and neck, rub my arms and torso, then curl up in my arms and lay her head on my chest. It felt good having her there, and I now liked the way she touched me.

Even though it was a new sensation for me, Joan told me that we'd cuddled like this many times before. “My favorite spot in the world for the past twenty-seven years is with my head on your chest,” she said.

As she gently caressed me and gazed at me longingly, I could see what she was thinking:
I know you are in there, Scott. Please come back to me.

I could also feel the warmth in her touch and the comfort and security she felt when I hugged her back. We'd been kissing a little here and there when my pain medications were working at their peak, and the kisses were becoming more passionate. I'd seen various stages of lovemaking on TV and the movie channels, and I knew that's what husbands and wives did, but I didn't really feel moved to go any further, even as I watched her getting in and out of the shower. Why, I wondered, didn't I feel like I wanted to do that myself?

Joan never said anything, and for now, anyway, she seemed to be satisfied with the kissing and hugging, although I could tell that she truly needed this human interaction. And because I knew my brain injury had taken so much from her, it seemed pretty important to give that to her. I sensed that she needed it to stay strong, to know her husband was still inside there somewhere even though I had changed so much. Even with no basis for comparison, I figured I had to be completely different because I was such a stranger to myself.

“I love you so much,” she'd say.

“I love you too,” I'd reply.

I had no idea what those words truly meant, but I felt that I was supposed to say them back, as I must have done in the past. That said, I
was
actually feeling some real emotion for her now—I didn't feel so alone when this little bundle of woman was curled up in my lap. In fact, as I began to realize, this was the
only
time I didn't feel alone.

It was hard to watch her weep, though, clearly feeling the loss of the connection we must have shared in the past. I so wanted to remember her and all those intimate moments. How could I not remember this sweet, beautiful woman who was so full of life? She was being so open, sharing all her emotions in her touch, with that soft, warm look of attachment in her eyes. I wanted to rediscover my feelings of love for her so she could see the same warmth in my eyes as I looked back at her, connecting with her and comforting her as she was comforting me. But how?

Joan was on the computer in her office one day, searching for journal articles on the Internet about head injuries and memory loss, still trying to figure out what was wrong with me.

I sat beside her as she searched, and she showed me how she was using a handy tool called Google. I remembered that Dr. Walker had mentioned this in the hospital when he said he'd looked up my past life in the NFL.

“This is a great way to get information if you're unsure of something or want to know more about it,” she said. “It's a good resource to the world.”

She walked me through a search using the keyword
amnesia,
cautioning me that not all websites were reputable and that I should take care to differentiate between sound and unproven medical advice.

I was a slow typist and my spelling wasn't good, but the great thing about Google is that it corrects your typos, so once I got the hang of it, I used it constantly. Between Google and TV, I was getting a handle on educating myself, and with every search, I felt myself growing a little more independent.

Early on, I searched the web for more details on TV news stories that had piqued my interest, soaking up data about the economy, the stock market crash, the bank bailout measure, our new president, the Bernie Madoff scandal, and the business world in general. Following the lead of my favorite TV news source, I made FoxNews.com my home page.

I joined Joan in trying to research what might have caused my amnesia and the dark area in my right field of vision, neither of which had improved one iota. Along the way I also Googled myself and found yet another way to learn about my past life as a businessman in a way that was not filtered through Joan's eyes but gave a more neutral and objective perspective from news reporters.

That said, it was ironic that even those news reports were filled with quotes from Joan, who, as my marketing director, had been the spokeswoman for our aviation companies, Legendary Jets, West Jet Management, and West Jet Aircraft. Those stories, in turn, raised more questions that I asked of Joan, who showed me more photos of airplanes, clients, and places we'd flown.

Similarly, I found stories about my college football days, my time in the NFL, and even FamousWhy.com, which listed me as “a famous American football player.” Who knew?

I was happy to discover a whole new avenue of finding information, which seemed endless. The world was slowly opening up to me.

But I still had plenty of questions. I watched Joan put on her makeup and get dressed in the mornings, figuring that if I learned her routine, I would know what mine was supposed to be.

I was puzzled about one thing in particular, however. Why was Joan, who knew enough to find her way around the Internet, so absentminded that she constantly misplaced my pain pills? During my first week home, she'd always bring them to me, even in the middle of the night. But after I started feeling more self-sufficient, I'd get them myself.

When she'd go to the store and I couldn't find the orange plastic pill containers where I thought I'd left them last, I'd have to wait until she came back to get some relief.