The luncheon was at Sky Ridge Medical Center’s stroke unit. There were about 65 people who had RSVP’d, all connected by a common thread: stroke had somehow become part of their lives.
There I was, standing in a room full of people who had lived through some version of the same experience.
And I didn’t recognize a damn one of them.
Well, almost none of them. I recognized a couple of the therapists, but the other people? Their faces weren’t familiar to me at all.
Then Nina saw me.
She recognized me and made her way over to talk with us.
I looked at her face and knew I recognized her, but her name just wasn’t there.
“I recognize your face, but I don’t remember your name. I’m sorry.”
She was kind about it and reminded me who she was. It was the sort of warm, understanding response I’ve been fortunate to receive from the therapists I’ve worked with over the years.
But then, while we were talking face-to-face, I noticed something.
Nina was on the verge of crying.
Way to go, Bates.
Apparently I’d managed to walk into a stroke luncheon and emotionally ambush a therapist without even trying.
Then she told us why.
She said it’s hard working with people, getting to know them, helping them through whatever they’re going through, and then having them discharged.
They’re gone.
And the therapists don’t necessarily know what happens afterward.
They don’t know whether the person went home and did well.
They don’t know whether they struggled.
They don’t know whether that person is still alive.
They just don’t know.
That hit me.
Because from the patient’s side, you leave therapy and move on with whatever version of life you’ve been handed.
But from the therapist’s side, people can simply disappear from your world.
No follow-up report.
No chapter ending.
No little message saying, “Hey, I’m still here.”
Just gone.
So we gave Nina a brief history of me.
A traumatic brain injury.
A stroke.
Years of dealing with the aftermath.
And there I was, standing right in front of her.
Maybe that’s why the moment got to her.
She had remembered me.
I couldn’t remember her name.
But she remembered me.
And perhaps, for a few minutes, I gave her something therapists don’t always get.
A glimpse of what happened to somebody after they walked out the door.
I’m still here, Nina.
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