Brian had a car, but days like this were bicycle days. He’d ride to the construction site where he worked, put in a full day outside and then ride back home. It was the perfect start and close to a hard day of work. He’d never wanted to be a suit and office kind of guy.
Brian was great with his hands. He could build anything. Once his sister had wanted stone steps; he didn’t hesitate to build them for her, even though he’d never worked with stone before. His hands just knew how to make things fit together. He’d tap danced up and down those stairs when he finished. Brian could dance any kind of dance, even though he’d never taken a lesson. His feet just knew how to make the steps fit together.
Brian looked at the April sky as he headed home on the bike. It was Friday evening and the light was so strong, getting stronger every day. He isn’t sure what they hit him with, but he still remembers the metallic sound echoing through his skull. He couldn’t feel them kicking him after he hit the ground. It was as if he were watching himself from above for a few seconds, his body curled up on the pavement, dark blood pooling under his head.
Brian felt like crying when he saw his mother and sister’s faces when he awakened from the coma in the hospital. He knew their eyes and he knew seeing them made him want to cry, but he couldn’t recall their names. Brian felt a great press inside—a feeling that he had so many things to say, things he’d been literally dying to ask, but when he reached for the words, the tool belt was gone. He couldn’t build the sentence.
The place where all the words used to dance easily with his thoughts was a cold, empty hall. There were only a few stragglers left behind, “Mom,” he could say. It was his thirtieth birthday. Brian moved onto the couch in his mother’s small apartment when they discharged him from the hospital. It was hard to walk. There are so many things to keep going at once, and in the right rhythm, if you think about it—arms and legs swinging and feet hitting at the right time in the right place so that you don’t fall over. His hands shook most of the time when they weren’t at complete rest. Carson staff helped Brian find a new rhythm. Staff helped him get a personal assistant, and connected him to rehabilitation services. Though he and his mom got help finding a bigger apartment, three years later,
Brian is thinking about independent living. He’s got an envelope and sticky note system that helps him remember the many steps it takes to open and close the doors and switches in a life. His new cell phone is his best friend. It tells him everything out loud—those next appointments and things that were just at the edge of his thoughts—and now he’s finding he’s even anticipating the phone, staying a step ahead sometimes. He was ahead of his phone today.
For six months he and his Carson worker had been talking about today. He sat in the passenger’s seat as they drove. They were headed over to the Habitat for Humanity worksite. He’d agreed to check out some of the building materials and review the cost estimates.
Brian’s fingers were poised, at rest, on the hard hat he held in his lap.
By JAC Patrissi
