chapter 11: like a virgin

The occupational therapist has been looking at some of the stuff you’ve written and you sit there in the classroom reading his report. You’re an out-patient now; have been for a while. You turn up to clinics, appointments, take tests, report on medication, attend review meetings, get measured for devices and aids, talk to physios and psychologists.... it’s a kind of progress. Right now it's more like being a school kid up before the beak, like he’s got your homework and he’s not impressed. In the corridor before class he grabbed you and issued what felt like a rebuke, a reprimand.
‘You’re holding out on me, Gaz’.
He calls you Gaz. Ok, let him. Damn Yankee.
You’re not quite ready to call him Nick. Two Nicks in your life now. One fixes the bodywork on the car, or did. Now this one tries to fix your body and make it work.
'You’re not letting go, not expressing yourself, not putting yourself in the story'. He sounded more hurt than disappointed.
Well, who’d want to be in this tale of loss, separation, defeat and despair? Huh? Not exactly a starring role is it? Who would you want for the lead in the screen version? Well, now that you mention it Robert Carlyle would be good for the part. Or Gregor Fisher might be more suitable, closer to the demographic. Start reading the Daily Record, smoke, put on weight and you’ve got Homer Simpson with a weegie accent. And for the female lead? Mmmmm. Is Meryl Streep too old? Rene Zellwegger? Nah, too fat. Ditto whasser name from Titanic. Right accent but wrong shape. Or what about her that married that prat from Coldplay? Got a kid called Apple.
The therapist then looks down from your bundle of pages to the walking stick. You use it now and again although the crutch is more psychological. And it usually gets you a seat on the bus on the days it hurts too much to use the car.
‘How’s the leg?’
There’s no answer to that so he enquires about the very fetching scar that gives you the piratical look that is currently so beautifully offset by the extravagant hoop earring you’ve elected to wear. This has been occasioned by the most recent cosmetic intervention to restore the alignment of your jaw that was thrown subtly out of kilter by the impact. You tell him you’ve had worse cuts shaving.
He appreciates the joke. He goes on.
'You’ve had several things published before so I know you can write. It’s academic stuff, but it’s still writing’.
Patronising cunt.
‘And I’ve read the piece on ethnography so I also know that you prefer to take a fictional approach where other people might see a factual account as more appropriate to the events…….’
He lets the notion hang there for a bit before going on and you can’t help it but you’re already plotting….bits of dialogue are making themselves available…….there were some memorable set-piece occasions…..’
‘So’, he continues, ‘why don’t you try writing this in the second person…’?
Second person, huh? That might just lend a bit of very necessary aesthetic distance to what could otherwise be a sloppy and emotionally indulgent exercise in introspection.
‘It might lend some necessary aesthetic distance to what could otherwise be a sloppy and emotionally indulgent exercise in introspection. Just a thought………..'
'Now everybody is sitting in the classroom.
'Ok, people. Short exercise. Pens ready?’
You and the rest of the numpties pick up your pens and get ready to write.
‘Scenario', he says.
You reflect that there must be a shortage of prepositions and pronouns in America.
'Sitting at home one evening. Doing nothing, doing something......doesn’t matter. Two hundred words on impossible dilemmas. Your choice. Ten minutes. Start now please’.
The page glares back at you for a bit but you soon wipe the smile off its A4 face.
‘Sweetheart,
This is me not phoning you. Like binary, it’s either or. I do or I don’t. You’re either a virgin or you’re not; pregnant or not. In love or not? Not sure about that one. But how can I tell you that I’m not phoning when I’m actually watching University Challenge and doing quite well. Once upon a time I got a picture question on modern art right. Bang on, no messing, right off and before any of those Oxbridge cunts had buzzed in….
You either know this stuff or you don’t. It’s no mystery. I just knew it. It’s all easy when you know the answer. Years in the pub quiz league. They’re all easy when you know the answer.
Starter for ten. In 2004 two people fell so deeply in love that a specialist mining company had to be brought in to detect their presence, so far beneath the earth’s crust had they fallen; so why are they not still in love?
No conferring.
The therapist is cruising. ‘Two more minutes, ladies and gents….’
But hey, I confess, I’m bloody good at quizzes. I can’t help it. I know the answers. But I don’t know why I’m sitting here and you’re there and we’re not talking any more. Pass. Give in. Don’t know.
There's more. Lots more. But then.....
‘Ok, folks, time’s up……………………
And you look down at the words on the page and wonder where they came from. And the therapist looks down but he is wondering why you haven’t felt the need to express yourself quite so forcefully before. He reads for a minute.
‘Bit of confusion with the person there….but that’ll resolve itself. Want to call into the office later, chuck a few ideas around? I’ve got a few books you might like. And I read that piece by Michael...? Michael Angrosino you referred to. Very good. I liked that a lot’.
Doreen interrupts the exchange.
‘Yer waistin yer time wi him! It’s aw locked up here’, she shouts , tapping her head.
It’s aw up here in his heid. Ye can see it in his eyes. It’s sitting’ in there like a pot o’ soup, boiling up'.
She punctuates her diagnosis with a sharp poke at your ribs with her zimmer frame. Yeh, she actually lifts the whole frame and prods you with it.
‘His ain mither came tae see’im and he never opened his eyes. Pretending tae be in a coma. Ye should be ashamed. Ashamed'.
And then Doreen falls over. Serves her right. Stupid cow.
'Touch of the TDs there', mutters Nick as a nurse from the ward carts Doreen off in a wheelchair.
You glance at your neighbour.
'Tardive dyskenaesia', she whispers. 'It's a side effect of the medication'.
It's then that you begin to appreciate that the spidery handwriting isn't just laziness or bad penmanship. She can scarcely control the tremors.
Nick then compounds the scholastic metaphor by issuing homework and making everyone's attendance at therapy sessions contingent upon its completion. Everyone has to write 500 words for next week. The topic is pain. He moves past your table and makes one suggestion.
'Second person narrative, Gaz, or first person. If you think you can handle it. Why not use a pseudonym? It might help. Forget verisimilitude. Oh, and have you heard of the research project they're running for trauma survivors? Might suit you.'
And with that he winks and saunters off back to his office.

He looks up from his desk, clearly surprised and a bit off balance to find you there opposite his desk before he's even parked his arse in his executive model swivel chair.
'I want in on the research project'.
The words are out before you know it.
'Ok', he drawls.
It's a very short word but he elongates the second syllable till you can hear the prairie in the accent and smell the sage in the air. Somewhere in the mid-west? Where's Oklahoma? Kansas? A pennant on the wall behind the desk gives it away. Nebraska. A college football team. So that's where he’s from.
'Gaz, I'm gonna level with you'.
Again he let's the pace of his talk slow things right down till they almost stop. The effect is not to increase the tension but to dissipate it. You fold into the vacant chair you've been leaning on for support.
'Do you remember the last time you were in here?'
He has a big box file on his desk now. Your name is clearly visible on the spine. He also seems to be referring to a file he’s just opened on the computer screen.
'I've never been in here before. I didn't know where your office was till yesterday'.
'True, Gaz. That part's true'.
He reads a page and continues.
'You've never been in this office before but you've been to this hospital before, right?'
He gets out of his chair like he's dismounting a horse and comes round to stand beside you. The thought occurs to you that he might be a genuine cowboy. And he's tall; very tall. You slump further into the chair.
'When did you come here first, Gaz?'
'24th June, around six in the morning. By special delivery'.
'The chopper, yeh. Good, very good. Five fifty three a.m. if these admission notes are accurate. But you don't actually remember it'.
'No'.
'No, you wouldn't remember much about that time. Nobody does......nobody in your circumstances, I mean, with severe head injury, massive trauma, RTA....' He trails off and his blue eyes narrow and he seems to be gazing into the far distance, looking for something on the horizon, stray horses, signs of rain.....
'And that's part of the problem, isn't it Gaz? Trauma and memory. It gets complicated, doesn't it?'
For once it sounds as if he might not be asking a rhetorical question. But there's nothing you can say.
'Ever heard of dissociative amnesia?'
You shake your head.
'Dissociative stress?'
'No'.
'Ever been hypnotized, Gaz?'
The question snaps you upright in the chair.
'What's going on, Nick? What's this about?'
'The technique involves a certain amount of....well, let's call it sedation'.
'Like a truth drug?'
'Mmmm, amobarbital or midazolam, so broadly similar, yes.'
'Wow'.
'Ever tried CBT?'
'The 'T' must stand for therapy'.
'Sorry. Yeh. Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. CBT. I guess that's a no then?'
He takes a turn round the office. The phone rings. He ignores it before going back into his chair.
'Your trauma isn't just physical, is it? There's something else there. And that's where the memory problem comes in. You can't remember, can you? There's a gap. I mean there's still a gap even when we take account of the expected curve....'
'Like.....'
'Like you can't remember being here before, in this hospital.'
You look at the box file.
'Oh, it's all here, Gaz, or most of it anyway. But not all of it. I can't tell you and that's not just medical ethics and before you say it....'
Here he stands up and with a stetson his head might touch the ceiling.
‘…..your rights to access your own notes are superseded by the clinical directive to care for the patient. You need to tell me, Gaz. You need to tell me what happened. You need to tell me because a) if I told you, you wouldn't believe it and b).....well, because trauma and memory, it starts to get complicated, very complicated. That leads us on to c) but.......'
He puts the box file back in the cupboard and makes a show of locking the door. He turns and looks you right in the eyes.
'Some of the stuff you've written since you've been coming to the therapy class......well, it's kind of hard to tell if it's fact or fiction, there's a real sense of place and character, almost like it's written from memory......'
Just for a moment the lights dim, flicker, then burn bright. Nick doesn't seem to have noticed.
'.......I mentioned dissociative amnesia a moment ago. It causes memory gaps.... minutes, hours ...days even. Longer sometimes. The person will be vaguely aware that they have these gaps but sometimes it takes a physical reminder to put the memory back in place'.
'You think this is what's happened to me?'
'I'm pretty sure. You have all the signs and symptoms. Classic case. Example. August 3rd. 9.27 a.m. You sign yourself out of the hospital. You return voluntarily three days later. Where did you go? No answer? Ok. September 2nd. Same process. Two week absence. You return looking tan. Take a holiday did we? Pity you didn’t take a camera.
'So...?’
‘So we make a few calls….’
‘And….?’
‘And we subsequently build up a picture of your…….’.
He pauses to select the right word.
‘Your absences. You went AWOL, Gaz, more than once. And you don’t remember a thing. Which brings us to a tricky area…..false memories....Well, some things are best left alone, huh? Don't you think?'
'Doesn't sound very scientific'.
'Stuff like this tests the limits. Science doesn't have all the answers. That's why freaks like me get a chance to practise in this wonderful health service of yours. And that's why I thought the new research project might interest you. Writing as therapy is an ancient response to stress. With some input from psychology I reckon you could resolve this whole episode ................Gaz! Gaz, you with me! Gary! Speak to me, buddy!’
You didn't see him move but he's on the floor beside you and you remember a visit to the dentist, looking up into a masked face with the ceiling behind his head and a bright light shining in your eyes.
'Easy there, boy'.
Nick might be talking to his horse or his dog.
'Easy now. This is flashback territory'.
The bright light now has a black and orange tinge. You can smell smoke. Your breathing speeds up until you hyperventilate.
He’s returning the phone to its place on the desk.
'Ok, Gaz, the cavalry is on its way'.
Many hands take hold of you and when you come round you're back on your old ward and being subject to another chemical assault on your central nervous system. You check the passage of time by running a hand around your chin. A day, at least. When you're able to function and focus you discover that there's an appointment card on the bedside locker. You reach out and pick it up. It's an invitation to participate in a research project. Attached to it with a paperclip is a handwritten note. It's from Nick. You recognize the scrawl. It reads, 'First person narrative'. And that's it. No signature, nothing.
I resolved to begin straight away.