1-800-ANGST

I flip through the rolodex, looking at old business cards with mostly fond memories. The honey farmer, the tattoo artist, the writer for ESPN, these were good interviews and fun stories to write. But the individuals I'm looking for now- the speech therapists, the OT specialist, the neurologist- the thought of talking to these people makes my stomach hurt, and my left shoulder is weird and shaky as I type interview notes into my June calendar. I'm going home Wednesday, back to the "scene of the crime," as they say, to spend time at the lake where my vision first fuzzed out as my brain started bleeding. I want to describe the scenes in my story in as much detail as possible, so as part of my research, I'm going back to all the places I've introduced in the book.
I'll be in Alliance, talking to the nurses I told to " fuck off" while in so much pain. I'll be talking to the speech therapist I worked with once released. I'm going to Wyoming some time in the next two weeks as well, to interview the medical staff there, the people who told me I might never live on my own again or balance a check book, or work, or drive a car. I'm going back in time, and looking up these individuals has left my stomach in knots already. I have no idea what the future will bring, but if I've learned anything from these people, it's that all we have is the moment we're in, and getting through that is all that counts.So with a voice as shaky as my shoulder, I talk to Missy, my old Occupational Therapist, update her on my life, find out about hers. It's good to talk with her first; young and hopeful for me, we got along great, and she's willing to track down my uber busy neurologist to get an interview with him set up. I'm nervous about this process, more nervous than I was to start rehab. Then, I was operating on a slow, foggy breain and unsure of what was to come. I'm still unsure of what's coming, but I am aware of the amount of hard work that lays ahead.