Memories

"I remember the stench of the hospital was overpowering. Eye watering cleaning products mingled with warm sickness. And it was the strangest feeling. I knew I was moving because of the changing visual information, but I couldn't feel my body at all. I don't remember getting to the door, or walking into the room. I've heard other people in the bereavement group say that it’s the image of their loved one hooked up to machines with various tubes protruding from them that sticks in their mind, but I honestly don't remember that. Just that smell."

"Hmm." The doctor scribbled a quick note on her pad before meeting his eyes again. "And what about the funeral? What do you remember from that?"

"Again, just the smell. That smell after a heavy rain; wet air, wet grass, wet mud. I can see people stood around the graves, but whenever I try to focus and identify them, the blur of their face expands, engulfing their body until they're just vague shapes. Outlines of people with no defining features."

Another note jotted down, another non-committal filler noise.

I could be a therapist. All they do is ask questions then respond with 'mmm' or 'hmm' or occasionally 'mhmm' regardless of what the person says. Bet she's noting down things she needs from the shop on her way home later.

"Jason?"

"Yeah?"

She was looking at him expectantly.

"Sorry, what was the question?"

"Can you tell me about the time in between the accident and the funeral?"

"Erm, it was just the usual stuff. Making funeral arrangements, sorting their affairs, that kind of thing. I don't remember what we did specifically on each day."

The doctor made another note, then placed the pad faced down on the glass table in front of her, resting the pen on top of it. She leant forward, then eased back again.

"Why are we here, Jason?"

"To help me deal with the grief of losing my parents."

"And, where is 'here'?"

A thought about how strange a question this was had barely finished forming when a feeling of Déjà vu swept it away. Jason scanned the room. The Déjà vu intensified as his eyes explored the therapist office; those green and blue pictures of glasses on the wall in front of him of him, the dark grey wooden bookshelf, the tall potted plant next to it - they were all so familiar. Not in a sense that he'd been here before, more that his eyes remembered moving from one to other before, in response to this very question.

Hang on. Have I been here before? Have I done this before?

His heart rate was becoming erratic; it was beating too hard, and not in the standard 'tha-thud' pattern it should be. His palms were dampening. Panic and confusion burned his chest.

Why am I scared? What is there to be scared of here?

The more he tried to unpick the knot of fear, the tighter it pulled within him. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn't make his lungs expand enough to bring in sufficient oxygen.

"Jason! Jason! Look at me."

She wasn't shouting, but he could sense the attempt to regain control in her tone. She was holding up a picture. He tried to focus and un-blur the image.

"Jason, tell me what the picture is. Say it out loud."

He squeezed his eyes into a squint and then widened them, before relaxing his face.

"A flower."

"What colour flower?"

"Purple."

"What type of flower?"

"Clematis."

She lifted the picture and tucked it behind the others, revealing the next image as she did.

"And this one?"

"A blue hydrangea."

She continued replacing each picture with the next as he answered.

"A green carnation."

"A yellow marigold."

"An orange begonia."

"A red aster."

She placed the cards down on her lap. He realised he was breathing again. His heart no longer rumbled like thunder. He felt calm. Everything was clear. He had done this before. He closed his eyes to barricade the tears, and swallowed the stone in his throat. When he opened his eyes, the doctor was looking at him, waiting for his cue to determine her next words.

"I didn't go to the hospital. I was on a camping trip with friends when the accident happened. We were off the grid. I didn't have any service, and only got the message when I got back." He paused and took a deep, controlled breath before continuing. "I didn't go to the funeral. I was angry, and petty, and stupid. I didn't go the funeral, because I found my adoption certificate while me and Han were sorting my dad's office. We're here, because..."

Tears overflowed the failed barricade and the stone choked its way out of his mouth. The doctor handed him a tissue, but said nothing. She was waiting for him to continue. She needed to know he remembered it all.

"We're here, because it all got too much. I lost control. I hurt my sister; my Hanny. I didn't mean to. She was angry that I didn’t go to the funeral, and I thought telling her about my adoption would make her understand. But she already knew. They’d all known. They’d all been lying to me." The tears were flowing freely now. "Is she ok?"

"Yes, Jason. She's ok now. Please, where is 'here'?"

"Here, is the Barstow Psychiatric Facility."

The doctor responded with a sympathetic yet self-satisfied smile.

"How many times have we done this before?" Jason asked once the tears had subsided enough for him to speak.

"In total, twenty-seven. But you remember quicker each time. Today's the first day you've managed to accurately recall everything without me prompting you."

"Will I forget again?"

“Possibly. We won’t-”

“Why? Why do I forget?”

"Your mind is shutting out the painful memories, replacing them with ones that make you feel better. We'll spend the rest of the day as usual, and see how you do tomorrow. Do you remember what we normally do?"

"Yes. More therapy. Exercises to try get me to accept the things I regret."

"Exactly. See, you are improving. It's a journey, but you're well on the way. You're doing well."

"I can never take back what I did to Hanny though."

"No. I think that's the toughest part for you to accept. You can't take it back, but you can forgive yourself, get better, and rebuild your relationship with your sister."

The therapy session continued, as it had every other day, followed by group sessions and the usual activities.

The next day, Jason sat outside Doctor Franklin's office, waiting for his 10am slot.

"Jason?" Doctor Franklin called, standing in her doorway.

"Yep." He nodded and stood, joining the doctor in her office. She sat down in an orange, and picked up a notepad and pen from the glass table in front of it. Jason took a seat adjacent to her, adjusting the cushions before leaning back and waiting for her to start.

"Good morning, Jason. How are you today?"

"Good, thank you. You?"

"I'm very well. Are you ready to start?"

"Yep. Do I just start talking, or..."

The doctor penned a note, then looked up with a brief smile.

"Let's start with the accident. What do you remember?"

"I remember the stench of the hospital was overpowering. Eye watering cleaning products mingled with warm sickness. And it was the strangest feeling. I knew I was moving because of the changing visual information, but I couldn't feel my body at all. I don't remember getting to the door, or walking into the room. I've heard other people in the bereavement group say that it was the image of their loved one hooked up to machines with various tubes protruding from them that sticks in their mind, but I honestly don't remember that. Just that smell."