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Authors: Carolyn Roy-Bornstein
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side. I pulled up a chair next to Neil’s right side. Dan was holding his hand on his left. Saul sat gingerly on the edge of the bed.
“So, Mom. Tell me about Trista,” Neil said without opening his eyes, just sensing I was there. Something about the way he said it told me he already knew. He didn’t ask how she was doing. He didn’t ask for an update. Just “tell me about Trista.” Like he knew there was a story there. Something he had to hear. The story I needed to finish. Dan held his hand. I put the side rail down and moved in close. I started with a recap.
“Do you remember me telling you that Trista was in the accident with you?” He nodded.
“And that she was taken to a different hospital in Boston?” Another nod.
“And that her injuries were more serious than yours?” A silent yes. He still had his eyes closed, so I wasn’t sure if he had fallen back to sleep. I waited. He didn’t say anything or even open his eyes, but he moved his hand in a circle, motioning for me to go on. I was crying now. I put my hand on his shoulder and spoke quietly.
“Trista tried very hard to stay alive, Neil. And the doctors and nurses did everything they could. But in the end, she didn’t make it.” My voice broke.
“I’m so sorry.” Dan kept rubbing Neil’s other shoulder. Neil didn’t yell or scream or deny the reality. He didn’t even open his eyes. He just turned over and said, “Then I don’t want to get up any more.” Checked out. Done. It would be how Neil would deal with many things in the coming days and weeks. My heart broke for him.
I watched him for a long time. I wondered how he could possibly process that information. How completely unreal the whole thing must seem in his brain-injured, time-warped, drugged-out state. One minute you’re walking down the street holding hands with your girlfriend. The next you’re being told that while you were asleep, she passed away.
Despite our diligent preparation and all our “family rules” about how and when and where to tell Neil about Trista, Neil remembers the scene very differently—like those movies where the same story is told differently from each character’s point of view. In his world, the information came quickly and cleanly. Like a guillotine.
“She died.”
In mine there was forethought, a plan. A strategy worked out carefully over days, in consultation with others. Words well chosen and delivered in the warm embrace of family. I used to argue with Neil about it, tell him that’s not how it was. I wouldn’t have dropped those words like a hatchet on a chopping block. “She died.” For him to remember it that way made me feel callous and cruel.
I once lamented to Neil that if only I hadn’t said to him that night “Why don’t you walk Trista home?” that maybe they would both be alive now. But he told me that if he hadn’t walked her home, she would still be dead, and he would feel unbearably guilty for not being there. Maybe that helps him bear his wounds sometimes. By seeing them as penance. As proof that he was there. As the least he could do to protect her.
So maybe remembering my words the way he does is part of his healing. Maybe he has to remember them that way. Maybe he needs to feel the cruelty of the situation full on, not softened by a mother’s touch. Maybe he has to feel it like a cutter has to feel a knife against her skin. Because pain makes things real. Whatever the reason, his memory is what it is. I have finally come to realize that it has nothing to do with me. It is his reality and part of his healing and his journey back. And I have to honor it.
16
A Hasty Getaway
Over the next two days, Neil became more alert. He still slept a lot, but he had more spontaneous words, more facial expression, and more eye contact. He was deemed well enough to be transferred from the trauma ICU to what they called the step-down unit. Here we had a private room with a view of the city streets. It was quieter here,
“So, Mom. Tell me about Trista,” Neil said without opening his eyes, just sensing I was there. Something about the way he said it told me he already knew. He didn’t ask how she was doing. He didn’t ask for an update. Just “tell me about Trista.” Like he knew there was a story there. Something he had to hear. The story I needed to finish. Dan held his hand. I put the side rail down and moved in close. I started with a recap.
“Do you remember me telling you that Trista was in the accident with you?” He nodded.
“And that she was taken to a different hospital in Boston?” Another nod.
“And that her injuries were more serious than yours?” A silent yes. He still had his eyes closed, so I wasn’t sure if he had fallen back to sleep. I waited. He didn’t say anything or even open his eyes, but he moved his hand in a circle, motioning for me to go on. I was crying now. I put my hand on his shoulder and spoke quietly.
“Trista tried very hard to stay alive, Neil. And the doctors and nurses did everything they could. But in the end, she didn’t make it.” My voice broke.
“I’m so sorry.” Dan kept rubbing Neil’s other shoulder. Neil didn’t yell or scream or deny the reality. He didn’t even open his eyes. He just turned over and said, “Then I don’t want to get up any more.” Checked out. Done. It would be how Neil would deal with many things in the coming days and weeks. My heart broke for him.
I watched him for a long time. I wondered how he could possibly process that information. How completely unreal the whole thing must seem in his brain-injured, time-warped, drugged-out state. One minute you’re walking down the street holding hands with your girlfriend. The next you’re being told that while you were asleep, she passed away.
Despite our diligent preparation and all our “family rules” about how and when and where to tell Neil about Trista, Neil remembers the scene very differently—like those movies where the same story is told differently from each character’s point of view. In his world, the information came quickly and cleanly. Like a guillotine.
“She died.”
In mine there was forethought, a plan. A strategy worked out carefully over days, in consultation with others. Words well chosen and delivered in the warm embrace of family. I used to argue with Neil about it, tell him that’s not how it was. I wouldn’t have dropped those words like a hatchet on a chopping block. “She died.” For him to remember it that way made me feel callous and cruel.
I once lamented to Neil that if only I hadn’t said to him that night “Why don’t you walk Trista home?” that maybe they would both be alive now. But he told me that if he hadn’t walked her home, she would still be dead, and he would feel unbearably guilty for not being there. Maybe that helps him bear his wounds sometimes. By seeing them as penance. As proof that he was there. As the least he could do to protect her.
So maybe remembering my words the way he does is part of his healing. Maybe he has to remember them that way. Maybe he needs to feel the cruelty of the situation full on, not softened by a mother’s touch. Maybe he has to feel it like a cutter has to feel a knife against her skin. Because pain makes things real. Whatever the reason, his memory is what it is. I have finally come to realize that it has nothing to do with me. It is his reality and part of his healing and his journey back. And I have to honor it.
16
A Hasty Getaway
Over the next two days, Neil became more alert. He still slept a lot, but he had more spontaneous words, more facial expression, and more eye contact. He was deemed well enough to be transferred from the trauma ICU to what they called the step-down unit. Here we had a private room with a view of the city streets. It was quieter here,
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