Moments and Impacts

Impacts of Change

Impacts of Change

Home is strange. I realize this the moment that I walk into the small house. It's the same home that I've lived in since I was a child. The fence still has my bright pink section that I had painted when I was five, but everything is off.

There are no pictures of Mom hanging on the walls. The family portrait that used to sit on the table underneath the television is missing. And when I walk upstairs, with the company of my mother and father, I find myself being ushered into Malachi's room instead of my own.

All of my brother's belongings are missing. His collection of amusement park teddy bears that he had lined all along his walls are missing, instead replaced by shoes that I can only assume are my own.

Lara said before I left the hospital, after a very long month and a half, that things would be very different. I would probably have new friends then the ones I remember, although I really hope that I don't. Different classes, that one's kind of obvious. She listed off other's but I have to admit that I wasn't paying very much attention. I had gotten a very bad headache a few minutes before she came in and my nurse hadn't been back with my medication yet.

"I want to sleep in my own room."

Mom and Dad look at each other, and shake their heads.

Dad is the one to answer, "Lara said that you should go back to your previous life. This is your previous life."

He motions around my room, and I want to puke at what I find.

I have never been into anything athletic except for my precious swimming. I never really had time to do so, I was always watching Malachi when Mom and Dad were out working. Malachi loved watching me swim, said that I looked like a mermaid when I pushed off the wall after a flip turn. So I kept with it.

Instead of finding my old swimming trophies/medals/ribbons I find myself looking at basketball trophies, and soccer trophies. I never liked soccer. I never even liked to watch it, and basketball was terrifying to me.

We used to always play it in gym and the idea of the ball flying towards my face was like saying that I was holding a bomb.

I shake my head, refusing to accept that this is my room now, "No," I say, "No, no, no, no. This is not my room. This is Malachi's room. I don't care what Lara says! I am not sleeping in here. This is not me," I motion to the trophies surrounding me, "I do not like basketball!" I'm screaming now.

Lara told me that anger was suppose to be expected. That most people who have had head injuries experience mild, to strong anger issues. I just didn't think that it would happen to me.

"This is not my life! I want my old life back. I want my swimming records, and my photography back. This isn't me."

The leave me to stew on my own. And stew I do. I throw and break and chuck various objects. The only thing that stops me is the hiding picture. I don't know how I found it, because I in know way remember putting it there. It's almost like my body remembers what my brain doesn't, and it just moves to the picture.

My brother smiles up at me. And in this moment captured by the camera he isn't that boy who has autism. The boy who hates open doors, and hates kids whispering behind his back in fear that they are whispering about him. The boy who loves The Big Bang Theory because he can relate himself to Sheldon. Although he isn't as afraid of touching as Sheldon is, at least not with me.

Wasn't. I have to remember that.

I would always have to come into his class if he went on one of his rampages. He doesn't really calm down for anybody but me.

Didn't. That's going to be hard to remember.

Instead he's the boy who waves with his elbow tucked into his side. Smiles at every person he meets. Who cries when he sees a dead cat on the side of the road. He's normal, and happy, and just seeing him makes me want to cry again.

Sucking in a deep breath I take a step out of 'my' room. It has never been mine. It will always be Malachi's.

"I want to go to the rehab center," I'm feel like it takes all my energy to focus on saying that one sentence.

I hate that it takes so much effort to say nine words. But I can't focus, my mind is everywhere and it hurts to just think about say a full sentence. The only time I am really able to say a complete sentence without having to think solely on the words is when I'm angry. Although I'm angry more often than not lately.

Lara said that was normal. That most people get angry after they have had a major head injury. But I hate it. I hate that I get angry at the simplest of things. Like yesterday. My nurse had brought me a spork instead of a plastic spoon to eat my pudding with and I screamed at him until he left me alone.

"Lara said that you didn't have to," Mom says. She takes a step forward, but I don't really trust her with her new look.

She dress-up more like a twenty-year-old instead of her actual age of 43. Wearing dresses that cut off just before her knees, and wearing shirts that open wide in the back. I don't know if I'm just imagining things or not, but I'm pretty sure that Dad had looked surprised when she walked into my hospital room.

"I want... I don't want-stay here," they seem to be understanding what it is I'm saying more and more. I leave words out of sentences and they still understand. I'm happy that I don't have to repeat myself anymore. Or try to figure out what word I had been trying to say, but forgot to pronounce.

She doesn't look hurt at my statement. Almost relieved. That makes me feel sick to my stomach.

"Pack," I can't make myself push out anymore words then the single word.

They seem to understand anyways, because they shake their heads. A chorus of 'No's' escaping their lips.

"You go lie down sweetie," my father says. He doesn't meet my eyes, but that doesn't bother me. He never really has. He once told me that it was an invasion of privacy, "I can pack for you."

I smile at him and let him take me to the couch. Our house is small. There isn't much space for a lot of furniture, so we only have the old green couch. I'm happy to see that it hasn't changed, unlike everything else.

Mom tells him that she would rather go pack for me, and when Dad volenteers to help her, she says no and rushes up the stairs. Something is wrong with them, Mom would have jumped at the chance to be with my father, but now she doesn't want to be by him.

I don't ask Dad though. I just want to at least imagine that one thing is still the same.

"How's your head?" he doesn't touch my hair. Too many germs. He hates germs, "I think it's about time for you to take your medicine again. Isn't it?"

"One," I hold up a finger, too tired to finish my sentence of one more hour. It's too much work to think that hard, and my head is already throbbing.

Giving me a sad smile he holds up a finger, "I'll be right back."

He stands up and leaves me alone. Going into a door, which I can only hope is still Mom and Dad's bedroom, he shuts it tightly behind him. After some shuffling and a closet door closing, the bedroom door opens back up and Dad is standing there holding three teddy bears.

I girn sadly.

"These were his favorite," Dad says. Even though I already know this I let him continue, "This one," he holds up the bright pink one, "you won for him. And this one," he holds up the biggest of the three, "I won. And this one," holding up the last one I can see him holding back tears, "was the first one that he won. He would have wanted you to have them. I can just hear him saying that they would help you get better faster."

Tears are pooling on the couch next to my face. Holding out my arms, Dad places the bears into them. I squeeze them tight.

"Ready?" Mom asks coming down the stairs to stand in front of the door, my bag in hand.

Nodding, Dad helps me up and to the door.

"I wish nothing had changed." I whisper and am ushered out of the door and into the car to the rehab center downtown.