My Life, Deleted (18 page)

I tried to explain to her how this worked for me. “I need to know where we're going because I feel like I can't afford to make mistakes, and it builds up great anxiety when we get lost because I'm already feeling so lost to begin with,” I told her. “So it's in my best interest to prevent getting more lost by planning ahead.”

“Well, we used to enjoy being spontaneous,” she said. “We could just go out driving somewhere in San Diego—or some other city we weren't familiar with—and look for a fun place to eat. But I understand that the more you know, the less anxious you'll be, so we'll hold off on ‘discovery' trips for a while.”

One thing I'd retained were my organizational skills. Joan said I still knew what I needed to know to accomplish a task, probably after Googling it, and was quite capable of developing an action plan, as I had with the cars and watches. Where my memory could fail me was during certain steps in the execution.

There were still big gaps in my general knowledge. Joan said I often got a blank expression when we were talking and I had to ask her to repeat a word or phrase that I used to know. Sometimes I didn't understand the meanings of less common words and needed her to explain them as well. Some everyday phrases simply didn't make sense to me, such as “can't see the forest for the trees,” “cut from the same cloth,” “don't cry over spilled milk,” and “don't put all your eggs in one basket.” If she said one of these and kept talking, I missed everything that came after it until I got an explanation.

These days I often went back and forth between the family room and my office to look on the globe for a country I'd seen on the news, such as Afghanistan, and determine where it was in relationship to us.

When a complex subject such as a mortgage came up, I Googled the definition to learn how it might apply to me or our family, then went through our household financial documents to learn more. I did the same thing when I heard terms on the news about “the federal reserve,” “a thirty-year adjustable rate,” “refinancing,” or “loan modification.”

Same-sex marriage was in the news a lot these days, particularly with the approaching election, so I discussed this issue with Joan. Before the accident, she said, we'd both felt that marriage should be between a man and a woman, but if a gay couple wanted to marry it was their business. I'd seen a lot about gays on TV, and although I still didn't have a problem with them getting married, it made me uncomfortable to see two men kissing. That was one more thing that hadn't changed.

I made an appointment to see Dr. Arlen in late June, and because Joan was working, I went alone. This wasn't a big deal for me anymore. I was used to seeing doctors by now.

Arlen was fairly tall with graying hair, a quiet manner, and a stone-faced expression. She seemed to be the most knowledgeable of the neurologists I'd seen to date, and she ran a series of question-and-answer tests similar to those in my earlier neuropsych exam. Upon reviewing the original results, she said she wanted me to do a full exam again to rule out early dementia, even though she doubted this condition was in play.

After we'd talked for more than an hour, she seemed surprised when I told her that our past requests for a SPECT scan had been rebuffed. She agreed that we should order one and said she would ask a radiologist she respected to interpret the results.

She seemed puzzled that my memory still had not returned now that six months had passed since my fall. When I asked if she had any theories, she said, “I have no idea, but the SPECT scan should give us some answers.”

I felt more encouraged after our appointment than I had in quite some time.

On July 16 I went to another NFL alumni meeting and chatted with Lisa before the other folks arrived.

I was feeling more comfortable with these people, and if this organization was going to become a home for me, I wanted to be up front and honest about my condition. I also felt I could pick no better person to tell than Lisa, was who about my age and was very easy to talk to. She'd been so warm and kind to me since the start, and I was hoping that if she saw me struggling again she would step in and act as a buffer—in other words, be my Joan at the alumni group.

So I shared my tale with her and was shocked when she started to cry. “You are one of the most courageous men I've ever met, to be able to survive and adapt the way you have,” she said.

“Looks are deceiving,” I said, explaining that I rarely left the house and took a big chance by coming to the initial meeting.

Lisa informed me that her husband, Bob, was the chapter's historian. “I'm sure he would like to hear more about your story,” she said. “He might even write a feature on it and submit it to the NFL headquarters to try to get it published in their monthly magazine.”

I told Lisa I would be open to that. It felt good to unburden myself of this secret I'd been carrying around for months, but I also asked her to keep it to herself and Bob for now.

“Absolutely,” she said, “and thank you for sharing that story with me. It is truly inspirational.”

Chapter 18

J
OAN WAS SITTING IN MY LAP
one night as we watched one of our favorite movies,
The Bourne Ultimatum,
when the phone rang. It was Grant, calling collect—and drunk—from a pay phone, just a few days shy of reaching ninety days of sobriety. Joan put him on speakerphone so we could both hear him tell us that he'd been kicked out of rehab.

“I'm glad that you're okay, but what the hell is wrong with you?” I asked.

He didn't have a good answer for me. “So what are you going to do?” I asked curtly, feeling the rage rising inside me.

“I don't know.”

“Well, you'd better figure it out,” I snapped, “because I'm not going to figure it out for you.”

“I'll call you later. I'll be fine.”

Joan started to cry, but I was so furious that I was hoping never to hear from my son again. Somehow I managed to put my feelings aside and help Joan deal with hers because she was getting hysterical. I took her in my arms and tried to console her. “We'll figure this out, I promise,” I said. “He's going to be okay.”

I really didn't know if this was true; I was just trying to calm her down so we could come up with a plan. This roller-coaster drama with Grant was making both of us crazy.

“He's never been homeless,” she said. “What if he overdoses because no one's there to help him?”

“You have to relax,” I said. “He's going to be okay, and I'm sure he'll call us soon.”

As we lay awake, our emotions went from dashed hope to worry, panic, and, at least for me, anger. “I hope he gets arrested so he has some consequences for his behavior,” I said.

Joan wouldn't go that far, but she agreed he should feel some ramifications of his actions. For the moment we were the only ones feeling the pain after shelling out all that money for failed rehab programs.

I tried to reassure her that Grant was a strong tall kid with tattoos—big enough that no one would mess with him—so I wasn't worried about him being homeless in a park or on the beach for a couple of days, even a month.

“He's a resourceful kid,” I said. “But he's also not that mentally strong to be able to live like that for long. He'll figure out a way to make other arrangements.”

I dozed in and out of sleep all night, with Joan nudging me every so often and asking, “Do you think he's okay?”

I kept trying to console her, but she wouldn't let go of the what-ifs. “What if something happens to him?” she asked, crying. “What if he gets so lonely that this time he takes his own life?”

“I don't think he'll do that because, deep down, I don't think he wants to die.”

“You don't know that for sure,” Joan said.

As night turned into morning, we felt helpless, still hoping to get a call from him and not the one we dreaded most: “I'm sorry to inform you that your son is dead.”

This was no way for us to live. I was strong enough to deal with my amnesia, but this on top of everything else was almost too much to bear. Sometimes I wished Grant was out of our lives so I could concentrate on getting better and taking care of Joan and Taylor, who actually wanted to be part of our family.

Grant finally called collect around 10:00 that morning, saying that he and one of the girls who got kicked out of rehab with him had drunk some vodka and slept in a park. He said he would call us again to let us know that he was okay. We both told him we loved him and that we wanted him to get help.

“I love you guys too,” he said, and hung up.

Joan was beside herself. She started calling counselors from Grant's previous programs, his new sponsor, and his old sponsor in Arizona, asking for advice. They all said the same thing: “We can't help him anymore. He has to want to get help for himself, and if he wants it he knows where to get it.”

This seemed to calm Joan enough that she could move back into tough-love mode.

We didn't hear from Grant until later that evening, when he said he was getting high again and going to stay at his friend Justin's apartment in Oceanside. Justin (another friend of Grant's, who we called “Justin from Cali”) was the son of one of Joan's friends, whom Grant knew from motocross. Joan did not think that Justin was a drug user, and we were relieved to know that he wasn't sleeping on the street.

Over the next few days Justin kept calling Joan, worried that Grant was going to overdose in his apartment on the heroin that Grant had bought with money one of the girls had panhandled at a gas station.

“Kick him out,” she said. “You can't help him, and I don't want you in the middle of this. He needs to get help on his own.”

Joan and I became more worried when Grant called back a couple days later with an attitude that frightened us both. “I don't care anymore. Maybe that's all I am, a drug addict, and always will be. I just don't care,” he said. “I have enough money to go buy enough heroin to kill myself.”

Joan began to cry again. “Please don't do this to us. We love you so much. You need to get back into a program. You need to call your sponsor.”

“Why call him? He's just going to try to talk me out of it. All I want to do is get high, so who cares?”

“We do,” Joan said pleadingly.

Grant left the threat hanging in the air and abruptly ended the conversation. As a father, I wanted to drive out to California to make sure he was okay and to get him some help, but as a man I wanted to grab him through the phone and smack him.

Through Joan's investigative efforts, she found a sober living home called Donna's House in Orange County. The place had a good reputation and so did Amy, the woman who ran it, who, we were told, wouldn't put up with any nonsense from Grant. We took comfort in knowing that if he wanted to get help we'd found him a place to go for $800 a month. It seemed like a better option than bringing him back to Arizona.

Grant eventually called back, saying he had no more money. The girl had gone back into treatment, and he was hungry because he hadn't eaten in two days.
Now
he wanted our help.

I had Domino's deliver a couple of pizzas to Justin's house, and Joan told him about the sober living program. Grant said he wanted to go the next day.

“Then it's up to you to call Amy and arrange it,” I said. “We're not going to do this for you.”

“I'm really sorry for all I've put you through, and I really don't want to live like this anymore,” he said. “I love you guys.”

The next morning, as Grant started yet another stint at getting sober, we found ourselves feeling hopeful once again that it would click for him this time.

In the meantime, I'd been popping Percocets like they were Skittles because it now took nearly twice as many to relieve the pain. That meant I sometimes had to take twelve a day. With the increase, Joan said, she'd noticed that I seemed generally more agitated, with more sudden angry outbursts.

“Do you really think it's the medicine or the fact that Grant is causing both of us more stress?” I asked.

“That's a possibility,” she replied, “but I know what you're like on pain medicine from previous surgeries.”

“Okay, I got it.”

I realized that Joan was giving me a not-so-subtle hint that she wanted me to start controlling my anger, which I hadn't even realized was a problem. We decided I shouldn't be taking so much Percocet, and I certainly didn't want to become dependent on prescription medication, so I made an appointment with Dr. Lanier to ask about other options.

Lanier recommended that I switch to a low dose of an extended-release form of oxycodone called OxyContin and take it three times a day to keep a constant dose in my body. This, she said, should avoid the ups and downs I was getting from the Percocet, but I would still need the oxycodone for the breakthrough pain.

When I explained to Lanier what was going on with Grant, she said she believed that additional stress rather than the medication was more the likely cause of my angry outbursts. She acknowledged how stressful my amnesia had been on both Joan and me and said she couldn't imagine how we were doing as well as we were.

“Looks are deceiving,” I told her. “I'm finding it hard to make it through some days without just lying in bed and crying all day.”

Lanier, who had been wonderful to both of us, was really the only physician who seemed to take a personal interest in helping me. It seemed that she and her nurses had done everything they could to make this condition bearable.

The weeks dragged on as we waited for the results of my SPECT scan while Dr. Korn, whom Dr. Arlen insisted was the only one who could read the results, was away on vacation. With each week that passed, I felt more drained. The tension was taking its toll.

It was an entire month before I received a call from Arlen's office on July 19. I made an appointment for the next morning, and for the rest of that day conflicting thoughts raced through my head.

First I felt positive, excited, and hopeful:
Finally, this could be it. I will find out why I'm still without my memory. Maybe, just maybe, they'll find it's something so simple that I can take a pill for it or undergo some sort of treatment to make me feel better.

But then the fear and negativity set in:
This is just going to be like the MRIs, the CT scan, the EEG, and every other test I've had so far that showed nothing. Maybe the doctors are right. Maybe this
is
all in my head and I
am
crazy.

When Joan got home that evening, I told her I was scared but I hoped this test would show something definitive. “I really need to know why I can't remember my life,” I said. “Not knowing just might make me go crazy.”

Joan hugged me and said, “No matter what this test reveals, we are going to make it through this. You're very strong, and you have the love and support of your family. We're always here for each other.”

I wondered if in my former life I'd had the same ability, to always know what to say to make her feel better.

I didn't know why, but I felt like I was going to wake up the next day and have a new life. Needless to say, I slept only an hour or two, wondering what the test results were going to reveal.

Joan left for work early the next morning, saying she was eager to hear the news as well. “Good luck, and you'd better call me the minute you get out of that appointment,” she said. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” I said, “and I promise you will be the first to know, good or bad.”

I was already showered and ready to go by 8:00
A.M.
, and the minutes seemed to crawl by. I kept looking at the clock to see if it was time to leave for my 10:00
A.M.
appointment. I arrived thirty minutes early, only to wait in the lobby until 10:15.

When the waiting room door opened, it was Arlen herself, and she wasn't smiling, so I immediately thought the worst. “Scott, come on back,” she said.

We both sat down, and she told me she had the results, which Korn had sent over in a detailed report.

I couldn't wait another minute for them. “Okay, I have to know now, so please tell me what they are,” I said, practically shouting with impatience.

Speaking in her usual unemotional monotone, Arlen said, “Based on the findings, it seems that you have a decrease in blood flow to the frontal and temporal lobes of your brain, and it appears that it was caused by a traumatic event, which in this case was your fall,” she said.

“So does this explain why my memory has not come back?”

“The brain is very difficult to understand, but we do know that the long-term memories are stored in the temporal lobes, and the blood is definitely not flowing normally to that area, so yes, this is why your memory has not come back.”

The scan, which showed healthy blood circulation in orange and decreased flow in blue, reflected a “dramatic reduction” in blood flowing to the front part of my brain, resulting in atrophy and a form of retrograde amnesia that was very uncommon, Korn's report said.

“Will it come back, and if so, when?” I asked.

“I don't know when it will or if it will,” Arlen said. “All I can tell you is that the longer it takes, the less likely it is that you will make a full recovery. But if you do get memories back, they will start from your earliest memories and then work up to the later ones. You may only get up to age twenty or thirty; we just don't know.”

“What happens if I don't get my memories back by, say, a year, two years?”

“If you don't get your memories back in a year and a half, chances are you'll never get them back.”

That last statement floored me. “Wow,” I said.

Asked if any treatment was available to increase the blood flow, she said, “No, unfortunately, there is no known remedy for this condition you have. Your memory will either come back by itself or it won't.”

Arlen recommended that I start concentrating on forming new memories and looking to the future, in other words living my new life without thinking about the possibility that I'd ever get my old one back. This diagnosis and her advice were exactly what I'd been looking for. Finally I had concrete evidence that something was wrong with my brain, that my problem was not psychosomatic.

Her calm parting words were the most powerful and true. “Scott,” she said, “now you have closure. Go live your life.”

I thanked her and left her office with a thousand thoughts running through my head. But the loudest one was
This is it. This is all I have to go on for the rest of my life.

After walking robotically down the stairs from her office to the parking lot, I sat in my car in the hot sun. I wanted to cry but I couldn't.
Why cry?
I thought.
I've already cried enough.
Besides, my brief sadness dissipated almost immediately and slowly morphed into a feeling of lightness and relief. The burden of the unknown had been lifted, and I realized I had no reason to be sad because I was free. I wasn't crazy after all.