True Story©… Am-Knees-Ya


     I have not changed the address on my license since 2008, when we moved down from the far end of the county back into the city.  I have thought about it, but the need for Real ID requires that I set foot inside the DMV to do it.  Furthermore, my (retired) mom still lives at the address that is on my license so the emergency situations that might arise from someone showing up to that address are not hindered by the fact that I have not lived there since July of 2009.
Besides, I am there at least three days a week or so anyway in case any mail comes.

     Recently, my simply not making the change worked to my advantage…
As a few of you know, I am in what is among the best physical shape I have been in in my adult life.  Back before election time, I had taken up hitting open gym and playing basketball with some people young enough to be my kids.  Stylistic difference in how they play against how we grew up playing aside, everything went quite well and except for a cramp that slowed me down for a week after one session, I survived well.  The rec center closed for early in-person voting in the municipal elections and then Costa Rica happened, so I was away from my basketball for about a month until weekend before last, and that is where shit went sideways.

     Here’s what I remember/was told…

-   I swooped in and jumped a pass and stole the ball.

-   I sped my 213-pound ass down the court and laid the ball up while being contested.

-   I got tangled up with the defender and misjudged or couldn’t see how far I had to land before I…

-   … banged my head against an unpadded backing wall..

“Was told” is an important thing to remember, because I was laying in a hospital bed when I received this information.  My not having changed my address might have saved my ass as well.  See, Wife Person™ and I have this thing we do where if someone rings the doorbell unsolicited or unexpected, we leave their asses on the porch.  Me?  I will at least check the app to see who it is, as it might be important.  She will not get off of TikTok just to see that it is the neighborhood kids asking if my daughter can come outside and play.  This is all beneficial because while I was sent to the hospital, the police went to MOM’S house to let her know what had happened and SHE contacted my wife.  Together they went and got my car from the center and now we’re all at the hospilla.

     … ‘cept I’on know NONE of these people at the time.  People were talking me like they knew me, but I don’t recognize faces or know names.  The nurse was talking to a woman who was alleged to be my mother…

Nurse: “This is not abnormal when someone has taken a nasty blow to the head.  He doesn’t have any skull damage or fractures or anything, but they say the guys at the gym said he was moving pretty quick.”

“Mom”: “Yeah, he took a big bump in 2003 too…  Car accident.”

Nurse: “And was there any memory loss or anything like that then?”

“Mom”: “He was a little groggy and disoriented, but snapped back pretty quickly then.”

Nurse: “Well here’s praying for the best.  His vitals are good and the CT scan isn’t showing any internal injuries.”

“Mom”: “Well that’s good.”

Nurse: “So we’ll keep an eye on him and see what we can do to jog him back.”

“Mom”: “Thank you.”

     The next couple days in this hospital were WILD.  Friends and family that I should apparently know came in and through the hospital to sit and talk with me at end.  I was told entertaining and sometimes hilarious stories about stuff I had (allegedly) done or participated in.  I was shown pictures of apparent family members who are no longer alive in hopes to place me back at a time that I might actually remember and then work forward from there.  It was all for naught though.  No amount of prodding, no number of pictures, no story colorful enough…  Nothing brought me from a completely blank existence.  All I knew about “me” is what I had been told in this hospital over a couple of days.

     I would learn, though, that my apparent twin brother – we’ll call him Jeffrey – is a licensed substance abuse specialist.  As it were, he knows things about drugs that have nothing to do with this situation for reasons that have more to do with what he does, even if he doesn’t treat for them.

Jeffrey: “When I was training, I read about how back in the days they used to give people with memory loss for whatever reason that triggered it using Mescaline.  The psychoactive effects seemed to cause the brain to ‘visit’ the location of otherwise lost or even repressed memories.  Perhaps, just maybe???”

Doctor: “At this point, nothing else is working, we should at least give it a swing.”

     From here, they fast-tracked my access to it through a medical research firm up the road a touch and had what was needed in hand and I was dosed.
Remember, I am recalling ALL of this from what I was told because 1) I still don’t know ANY of these people and 2) mescaline/peyote is classified as a psychedelic, so soon after I was dosed, I SWEAR I could hear colors and feel smells…  or whatever the hell…

     I came back to, I had to pee and was SUPER thirsty.
Standing around my bed was the woman they had told me was my mother, Jeffrey, a different doctor and nurse from before and some pretty lady.

Me: “Whoa…”

Nurse: “Welcome back.”

Me: “Where am I?”

Nurse: “You’re still in the hospital.”

Me: “W-what?  Were there no beds at the--…  The other hospital?”

Nurse: “What do you mean?”

Me: “Well, sweetheart.  You’re all--…  You’re um.  colored.”

Nurse: “Excuse me!?”

Me: “So I figured the Whites-only hospital must have been full if they brought me over to this one.”

Nurse: “Sir, I assure you that ‘Whites-only’ ANYTHING are long in the past.”

Me: “’PAST!?’  How long was I out, what year is it!?”

Nurse: “It’s 2023, you were only out for--…”


Nurse: “Doctor, we need you immediately!”


Nagan said…
SHit that's wild man

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