Dear Cody,
It’s difficult to see you get upset with yourself. It’s difficult to see you so passionately attempt something, but then so gloriously fail. There is always glory in your failure, Cody, because there is always glory in the prospect of becoming better. It’s funny how sleep erases a lot of things. It can erase arguments, pain, sadness, and for you, can erase some basic motor functions. You woke up not quite sure how to walk or to talk, and the doctors assured us that it was not because your brain cells were dead, but just a little rusty. It unfortunate that in those times when you desperately grab onto the side rail of your bed and weakly try and force yourself upon two legs that little slices of your memory weren’t erased in your sleep, too. Every time that you try and stand, something you did without a second’s hesitation before the accident, we can all see on your face that you remember those times when it all was so easy. You remember the times when you ran half-marathons or the days you spent parading around a research lab, constantly doing the one thing that has now been made impossible- standing.
The doctors, your wife, and even I try to persuade you into not being too hard on yourself, and to take this process in stride (pun intended). You don’t listen, however, or at least you don’t let it sink in, because even though we plead for you to not treat yourself so unfairly, tears still well up in your eyes, your face burns with anger, and you push us away as you retreat back into you bed. The doctors have told both Vivian and me that “it’ll come, but right now he should be lucky he can even move.” It’s not uncommon for someone who escapes the unconscious vortex that is a coma to come out not fully capable of what they were able when they went in. When their brain went inactive it also decided to downsize some parts. You were lucky enough to not have that happen, your whole brain stayed with you the whole time. I know that it’s hard to see now, when you feel as if your body has been made to resemble that of an infant, but you are one of the very lucky ones.
Vivian continues to surprise me. She cries all the time, and many times, does more than cries, she sobs. She sobs when she walks up to your room, she sobs as she touches your arm hair, she sobs as she’s leaving. I don’t know what has gotten into her. There were the first few days when she was actually frantic. I couldn’t get a hold of her so didn’t know when she was coming into the hospital, and when she did it was as if she was a contained tropical storm. She’d run from nurse to nurse asking what they had done for you today, and demanding and evaluation of whether not they were at the top of their game. Next, she’d see a doctor and fire questions at them as to why you were not already released to go home. She hardly ever acknowledged me, but when she did it was to fill my ear cavity with blistering complaints about the doctors and nurses inside the hospital. I probably shouldn’t be writing this to you, it’s not showing your wife in the most picturesque of lights, but it does go to show you how much this process is changing all of us. Vivian doesn’t normally act like this. Yes, she can cry once in a while, but she’s never in such dizzying control of her emotions that she seems manic. I’ll keep an eye on her for you. I know that is what you’d want me to do, and it’s really not a punishment, I love Vivian. I just hope that I can see the Vivian I used to know sometime soon. Don’t worry about her.
You’re doing much better- give yourself credit.
Love,
Mom