The Concussion

Tags

concussion, death, france, injury, logs, morning, mortality

There’s a large log that juts out of the ceiling and hangs over my bed. I’m short, so most times it really isn’t a problem. This morning though I woke up drowsy, had to pee, and stood up far to quickly. I smacked my face into the hard wood, which resulted in me biting down onto my tongue and passing out near the bed. When I came to there was dark, red, blood all over my shirt, sheets, and I had a throbbing head ache. I stumbled down to the bathroom, finally relieved myself and looked in the mirror. I had a bruise the size of a cherry and half of my face was swallow. That’s when I started panicking.

You see I’m used to medical problems, god my life is one, but I’m not used to having them when I’m living a lone in a foreign country.

I realized this morning that I’m mortal and that life can end very quickly. What if I had actually gotten a concussion? What if I had passed out, not onto the mattress, but down the stairs, I live in a loft. It was scary and it taught me never ever jump out of bed. Take a moment and just simply bask in the fact that you woke up to another morning, that’s how you avoid slamming your head into logs.

The Forgetful Man

Tags

Aups, dementia, france, old age, scotland, wine, writing

 I met him within the first three hours of landing in France. I’d just set down my one suitcase in my apartment, and decided that now was good a time as anyway to explore the small town, I had decided to make my creative prison, so to speak. Fighting jetlag, I wasn’ts particularily keen about my decision, but it was only one in the afternoon and although I’d been awake for almost twenty four hours, I still couldn’t go to sleep.

So I headed to the center of town, stopped at the first café I found, and sat down. A Scotsman was sitting to my right and noticed me immediately.

“I’m Stevie,” he said extending his hand to mine, before I had completely sat in the chair.

“Cait, just got here,” I said.

“Here as in the café, because I can see that, or Aups?” he muttered and then took a sip of wine. He was quite “refined.”

“Aups,” I replied. He flicked his hand up, as he gestured to the waiter.

“Une rouge pour la mademoiselle,” he says in a perfect French accent. The waiter hurried away and brought a glass of wine to the table. I pulled out a cigarette and lit it, I had a stash of Marlboro, that I brought with me.

“So they kicked you out did they,” he said as he motioned towards the cigarette

“Nearly, I actually came here to finish a novel,” I said.

“Fancy yourself a writer? I guess the young are allowed to have dreams,” he said as he downed the rest of his wine and once more motioned to the waiter.

“I suppose,” I replied not feeling like defending myself at the moment. I sat with him for over two hours, and learned that he was from Scotland, he loved the queen, and he thought that Julie Andrews had the voice of a fallen angel.

I left happy that I had made a new friend and passed out in my loft. The next day I was up early and went shopping for food. I saw Stevie across the street and waved at him. He waved back, but didn’t seem to remember me. I figured he probably had to much to drink the day before, he looked as though he might have been eighty.

Several days passed before I saw him again. I was sitting at the café answering emails and watching youtube, when he walked up to my table and asked in French, whether he could sit with me. Of course I said yes.

“I’m Stevie,” he said with an out reached hand. Its then that I realized he didn’t remember me. He may remember the past, but the present is covered in a fog that’s impossible to discern.

“Cait,” I said, not wanting to embarrass him.

Most times we talk, it’s about memories. He never mentions what he did that day, but he loves to tell me of the old days. When he worked in London, and had a secretary, when he was important.

 

I see him every day, but he never remembers me. Stevie, I promise I’ll never forget you.

 

*Names changed