by Christa Joyce

Created on: January 28, 2007   Last Updated: February 13, 2007

My fall from grace...

So here I am walking along the street, chattering away nineteen to the dozen as usual, and then all of a sudden I'm not. Instead I am face down on the pavement with a mixture of leaves, dust and blood in my mouth. In the distance a concerned voice is asking anxiously if I am okay and I hear myself mumble No!

It all gets a bit hazy after that.

I'm walking along the street with David. He's all concerned and I am wiping blood from my face with my hands, only there is too much blood and I've run out of clean hands. It's a bit of a mess.

A man walking towards us looks at me and concern, or is it curiosity, I can't tell but it's written all over his conker-coloured face. I am tempted to ask him what he's staring at, but before I can open my mouth he is gone and his footsteps fade away behind me somewhere.

I'm still talking. Mumbling, words tumbling, lips stumbling and I know I'm not making sense but I'm talking to save my life. I try to laugh but my face is stiff, starched and unmoving. I am a walking statue; a painful shadow.

Then we are where we were headed. I have called someone and told them my face hurts and then we go inside. It is cooler inside and I put my bag on the chair. David asks me for his diary; somehow it is tucked firmly under my arm. I look at it, and then at him, and then slowly I hand it over. I didn't know I had it. How come I have it? I don't ask.

I talk to him about stopcock panels and door closers for a while and I make a few ticks on a form I am holding but it is all too much and I can't do it anymore.
I tell David "I can't do this."
My voice sounds far away and shaky. He looks concerned.
I say "I must go now" and he nods.
From faraway within a mist someone says "I'll just carry on then shall I?" Nobody answers.

I'm outside again. I sit on the wall, conscious that it is dirty and covered in moss. I am folded over like a balloon with no air. I am waiting. It is hot and the sun is burning me but I can't move and anyway there isn't any shade. I call again. Where are you, I cry?

I'll be there soon he says. I'm coming.

I am sitting in a waiting room. It says waiting room on a sign on the wall and there are a lot of people sitting, waiting. Some of them look at me and then look away.

I don't feel so good. I want my mother and I call her. Tears spring into my eyes and burn at my throat when I hear her voice. I mumble and she purrs back at me. Then someone calls my name and I jump up, stand on unsteady feet, about to stumble, ready to crumble. Will someone save my life?

Sympathetic voices murmur as soft hands probe at my skin. The murmuring continues and then a woman says sharp sting' and something bites me, pierces my arm flesh. I am done.

That was Tuesday.

* The above article is a brief excerpt from "Lost for Words" - a work in progress charting my journey to recovery, following TBI sustained in a fall.

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