Without a functional frontal lobe, my brain is like a horse galloping dangerously after the rider has lost the reins. More and more, I just do what I want when I want to do it. I don’t notice anything awry—and if I do, I don’t care.
One hot and humid day in mid-June, I head to work in the early morning to avoid driving in heavy traffic because driving has become increasingly confusing. By late afternoon, I’m exhausted. I’ve worked all day without a break, trying to make up for lost hours spent at doctors’ appointments and hooked up to the IV to receive my immunotherapy drugs.
I look outside and see heavy, dark clouds gathering over the high-rises of the NIMH campus. It’s going to pour soon. I’m irritated by the weather and so, so tired.
I have to leave. I have to leave right now.
I bolt from my office to the multilevel garage where I always park and head to the same spot I always use. “My” space is usually open when I get to work because I always arrive early, often before the garage has any cars at all. The garage I use is not the one closest to the building where I work, but I like to take a little walk at the start and then again at the end of my day.
For many years, I had limited need for these ugly, concrete constructions to park my car. Whenever the weather allowed, I biked to work, about twenty miles each way on a peaceful, tree-lined trail along the Potomac River. But no more. Since my brain surgery and the immunotherapy, I don’t have the same energy and stamina, so I drive to work, although I hate it. I feel reduced to a lesser version of myself. But at least I have a lovely walk to relax and unwind after a day in the office.
After ten minutes, I reach the garage. But I don’t see my silver Toyota RAV4 in my regular spot.
That’s weird. I don’t remember having to park somewhere new today. I was in early, like I always am—wasn’t I?
I walk up one aisle and down another. The garage is full, but my Toyota is nowhere to be found. I search each floor, trudging back and forth, scanning the rows of cars. I’m concerned, then very worried.
Someone stole my car!
Or maybe I just—I don’t know. Maybe I parked somewhere new and don’t recall it?
I reach into my purse and pull out the car key. I press the alarm button and hear a beep. It’s coming from far off. I walk toward the sound, pressing the button from time to time to make another beep, then another.
What is happening? It makes no sense at all.
I retrace my steps, go back to where I started, and press the button on my key again. I hear the beep once more. But when I walk toward the sound, I can’t hear it anymore. I try the same thing over and over: press, beep, nothing. I can’t locate my car.
I’m confused and lost. I don’t understand what is going on. I don’t understand the world. It’s playing tricks on me, strange and cruel tricks.
I see a woman walking in my direction. I hesitate for a moment before approaching her. How embarrassing to admit that I’m having trouble finding my car! But I have no other option. I’m tired of walking around in this dark space. I want to go home.
“Can you help me find my car?” I ask. “I don’t know where I parked.”
She looks surprised but says she will help. She takes my key, presses the button, and we hear the beep. “It must be halfway up on the higher floor,” she says. “Look up there, through the gap between the floors.”
There, in the opening she’s pointing to, I see my silver Toyota. It seems to be on the ramp between the first and second floors. I have no idea how it got there. I grab my keys from her and run up the ramp to my car. It’s flashing its lights, as if winking its eyes at me to say, Gotcha!
I’m relieved but confused.
Why is it parked here? I don’t remember pulling into this spot. Is it possible someone moved it? Why would they do that?
My confusion only grows when I climb into the Toyota. I’ve been driving this car for three years, but when I get into it and try to fasten my seat belt, I can’t seem to find it. I extend my hand as I always do to pull down the strap but there’s no seat belt where I expect it to be. Instead, my outstretched hand dangles outside the door, hitting nothing but air.
I try again. The same thing happens. There is nothing to grab, nothing to hold on to. No seat belt, no anything.
Why am I having so much trouble with everything I try to do?
The world around me feels odd and awkward, with cars the most deceitful part of all. I no longer understand how to do the simplest things connected to them. I look around and still can’t find the seat belt. Instead, I notice that my door is wide open.
It shouldn’t be open, I realize. But I can’t recall what that has to do with the missing seat belt. I sit for a while and then, irritated, I slam the door with a bang.
With that noise, my world returns to normal. Like magic. I slide my right hand across the inside of the closed door, and it easily locates the seat belt. I reach for it; it’s in its normal position, right there, hanging from the fastener on the inside of the car. I pull it toward me and across my chest, slide the buckle into its locking mechanism, and click.
Finally! It works.
