Proof of Heaven

Memories. Recognition. A certain mischievous streak I’ve always been
known for returned as well. And while they were pleased to see my sense
of humor back, my two sisters weren’t always thrilled with how I chose
to use it. Monday afternoon, Phyllis touched my forehead and I recoiled.
“Ouch,” I screamed. “That hurts!”
Then, after enjoying everybody’s horrified expressions, I said, “Just
kidding.”
Everyone was surprised by the speed of my recovery—except for me. I
—as of yet—had no real clue how close to death I had actually been. As,
one by one, friends and family headed back to their lives, I wished them
well and remained blissfully ignorant of the tragedy that had been so
narrowly averted. I was so ebullient that one of the neurologists who
evaluated me for rehab placement insisted that I was “too euphoric,” and
that I was probably suffering from brain damage. This doctor, like me,
was a regular bow-tie wearer, and I returned the favor of his diagnosis by
telling my sisters, after he had left, that he was “strangely flat of affect
for a bow-tie aficionado.”
Even then, I knew something that more and more of the people around
me would come to accept as well. Doctors’ views or no doctors’ views, I
wasn’t sick, or brain-damaged. I was completely well.
In fact—though at this point only I knew this—I was completely and
truly “well” for the first time in my entire life.