How I Rescued My Brain Read Free Page A

remember to look at clocks, to keep track of time; it slips by quickly when I don’t.
    For the first time, I notice my mobile phone on the bedside table. If I turn it on, there will be messages, and people might want things of me. I realise how little I’ve thought about the troubles Anna and I are facing outside these walls. I’m not going to turn it on, for now. Instead I’d like to do something active. There is a library in the hospital somewhere, which I went to when Anna was in the early stages of labour several years ago. It has medical and psychology journals I don’t usually get to see. I’ll go look for it.
    I put on my shoes and walk down the corridor. Each doorway I go through feels new and vibrant, like I’m a tourist in a foreign city. I follow a direction on an overhead sign, walk a short distance, and then can’t remember what the sign said, or the direction the arrow was pointing in. The more I concentrate, the more my brain hurts. I realise I’m lost. Well, I’ll just follow my nose.
    After a time I see three of the hospital staff walking along in front of me. They are chatting and laughing, having a good time. I like their energy, so I follow them. We end up in a canteen and they sit down. It occurs to me that a coffee would be good.
    As I look around, it strikes me that everyone here is hospital staff. Almost all have lanyards with photo ID tags hanging around their necks. They favour the booths; the large open area near the windows, with tables and chairs, is sparsely populated. That’s where I’ll sit. I stand in line to order my coffee, trying to look like I do this all the time. I’m not sure I’m meant to be here.
    I sip the coffee by a window. I don’t think it’s very good, but I enjoy it. I watch the staff. They sit in their groups of colour: the blues, the turquoises, the whites. Some are also in regular clothes. They laugh and throw their arms around, telling stories over their sandwiches and hot food. It’s like a party; they’re more alive here than in the wards and corridors. Suddenly I have that feeling again: I’m not sure this is real. It’s a little unsettling, now. But I’ll act as if it is real, to be on the safe side.
    After a while, I realise I should head back for lunch. Before I left my room, I wrote down the letter and number of my ward. On my way back, the signs are easier to follow, and by asking staff for directions once or twice, I find my way ‘home’.
    A nurse tells me I can be discharged that night, once they have the paperwork done. Doctor Banister hasn’t been in to see me yet; I wonder if he will.
    No other doctors come by that afternoon.
    In the evening, Anna and our youngest daughter, Amelia, turn up. It’s lovely to see them. Amelia, who is eight, gives me her bashful smile. She’s keen to check out my bed and drink my milk from the little blue containers.
    I’m puzzled by how quickly yesterday went. Anna says we arrived at the hospital about eight in the morning and she left at four in the afternoon. She came back around six, after the hospital had called and told her that I was trying to leave. She brought with her a change of clothes and a toothbrush. Yet I have no memory of her coming back. I tell her that yesterday seemed only an hour long.
    Amelia and Anna are keen to watch the semifinal of a reality cooking show our family’s been following. We snuggle into my bed, propping ourselves up with pillows, and look at the television hanging from the ceiling.
    â€˜I’ve worked out what today is,’ I say, pleased with myself. Earlier I’d seen a newspaper lying around and caught sight of the date, and I’d been rehearsing the information ever since.
    â€˜What?’ Anna says.
    â€˜It’s your birthday, isn’t it?’
    She nods.
    â€˜Happy birthday, darling. We’ll do something when I get out.’
    She smiles