Doe, Wakefield

I wandered around the science building for 10 minutes trying to find my class. I could feel tears of frustration burn as they begin to  fill my eyes and I realize I don't remember where we met for my Human Behavior in the Social Environment class.

The science building is designed in such a way that every floor looks identical, all the classrooms layouts, the student government approved flyers on the walls, and the placement of projectors. This makes my journey to my Friday night class feel as if I were a naïve child walking through a mirror maze, met with confusion as I realized I don't remember which floor I am on, or what staircase I just came out of, and finding myself struggling to trust my instincts. As my tears blur my vision I can feel my frustration move to my chest as I scold my inability to discover my class which has met, in the same class, at the same, every other week since August. 

When I was first admitted to the trauma center, I was given a wristband that read “Doe, Wakefield''. I showed up in a blanket without anything. I wasn't wearing Great Grandma Lilah's ring I had worn everyday since late high school. I didn’t have my forest green phone case that everyone seems to poke fun of when going out to eat. There were no clothes on my back, no shoes on my feet. Everything that made me “me” was taken away from me in the fraction of a second that it took another driver to check his phone. When I arrived I didn’t even have the cognitive ability to identify myself, or any identification near me when responders removed my body from my, now demolished, 2014 Chevy Impala.   No one, including myself, knew who I was. No one in my life, myself included,  knew where I was, or what had happened. It was as if for those few hours I did not exist.  

And within those few hours I was a “Jane Doe” or Wakefield Doe in this case

To be frank with you, most days since the accident I feel like Wakefield Doe. Most days, I  don't seem to recognize myself.

I am sleeping in vacant parking lots during lunch hours. 

I go to meetings and end up asking questions that were answered the day earlier in the conversations I had. I think about how there is no possible way that fact or request was made to me. I can feel the frustration of professors, peers or coworkers who have had to answer my repetitive questions. My face turns red with embarrassment and I sink a few inches into my seat.

I drive 20 minutes to the wrong destination, in the opposite direction.

I think about how it's almost dinner time, as I drive to work at 9:30am.

I open our mailbox to monthly envelopes telling me to pay the thousands of dollar bills for May 18th, 2022 or my credit will be affected. But let's face it, I am a grad student in her early twenties, already in debt from undergrad, who also doesn't have the capacity or knowledge about insurance, or debt, or credit to be able to care. 

I reset my Wells Fargo Password for the 3rd time this week. 

I read, and reread all the required texts, emails, and notes that I had taken earlier in the day or week.

All of these are small annoyances, frustrations and disruptions I encounter, but the most difficult of all is going out with friends and realizing I will not be able to remember most of the memories we are creating. I will retell the same stories and updates I told my closest friends a few days ago. 

As life seems to move forward, I try my best to catch up. Best friends are getting married, family is getting older, there are babies being born, birthdays, bachelorette parties, and bridal showers. 

I fear I will enjoy moments of memories, but I feel, in many ways, I have lost the ability to cherish them within the days, weeks, and months to follow.

I feel I am showing up to the sideline of my life and watching it unfold, rather than being an active participant. Life moves forward, while I am stuck waiting for someone to grab the jaws of life and remove me from the psychological car I am trapped in.

But I must consistently remind myself that there are moments. Moments that I try to hold onto that remind me about the simple joys. Moments where I stop to look at the pond outside our town home, and how the trees around it are the most beautiful shade of yellows and reds. Moments where I walk across campus, and I see small birds bathing in puddles embracing the inevitable change of the fall season. I notice the calm rain softly gliding across the windows that lay behind the green potted succulents. The feeling of others' love through a listening ear, raises eyebrows and an empathetic nod. And eventually these moments may be forgotten, due to the inevitable fragility of my brain, or the dependable passing of time.

But for a handful of seconds, I am here, fully present, existing in humanness. Living in a place of presence. Appreciating what and who is around me for as long as God gives me the ability to have them. And maybe that has always been the point. Even before May 18th 2022. That all we can really count on is the moment we are in, with the people we have surrounded ourselves in. 

Maybe, just maybe, I am discovering how life has always been intended to be experienced. 

And what a beautiful gift that is.