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that was impulsive. Trying to lean forward to get a drink of water, that’s not impulsive. But saying ‘Fuck you sideways’ because you won’t pick me up, that’s impulsive. See? There’s a difference.”
     
    YOUR BODY’S CENTER OF GRAVITY is something you never gave much thought to before. The brain does many things unconsciously, things like breathing—and stabilizing itself when you lean forward to get a drink of water. The brain’s the boss, supposedly. Currently though, some of your body parts are guilty of insubordination.
    In fact, the entire left side of your body now refuses to take orders from the boss. No one on the left side is listening—they’ve quit their jobs. So the boss has pretty much chosen to ignore the left side of your body. It no longer exists, according to your brain.
     
    THE FALL HAPPENED at a little before two in the morning; there was only one aide to hoist you from the bed to the potty chair next to your pathetic, sagging bed. You required two—it was a matter of policy. Down you went. There followed a full-body X-ray in your bed. Your shoulder shows a two-inch separation between your limb and your shoulder joint.
    The aide says it’s because of your fall—and the fact that you’re “impulsive.”
    Actually, it’s from her yanking your arm to get you back up off the floor.
    You’re starting to see a pattern here: The bigger the staff ’s error, the more “impulsive” you are.
    “It’s typical for right-hemisphere strokes to act impulsive,” says the doctor who takes the x-rays.
    You may be brain damaged, but you know full well they’re just covering their asses. It’s an unspoken rule: Always find a reason to blame the patient for any problem. This reduces the risk of lawsuits.
    Two weeks ago you were in charge of your life. Now that misplaced fluorescent light above you seems to be running things.
    You can still hear the surly aide’s verdict in your head: “That was impulsive.”
    You press down on the call box button for at least a minute and hear yourself weeping when someone finally answers.

Impulsively Yours
    THE VERY SAME AIDE REMATERIALIZES bearing a disgusting-looking tuna sandwich. You ignore it. She asks you what’s wrong.
    “You really want to know?”
    “Of course.”
    So you tell her.
    “My husband isn’t here. My brain, which has allowed me to be an independent human being for thirty-seven years or so, has decided to go on strike. I never had to think about each individual instruction the brain gives my limbs in order for me to walk or sit up erect in a chair. I’m not impulsive. I have never suffered from denial. My brain is just getting caught up to the fact that half of me is paralyzed and must be moved with conscious thought. Also, people don’t answer when I press the call button, or if they do, they sound like the guy behind the curtain in the Wizard of Oz . And this room is really freaking me out. It’s purgatory. Just looking at the pink of that floor makes me nauseous. And I don’t much care for the smell of the place. And I wouldn’t feed that tuna sandwich to a stray cat. That’s what’s wrong.”
    She frowns.
    “Toto,” you say in a mock whisper, “we’re not in Kansas anymore. Can you please try to find me something else to eat?”
    “Can’t. The cafeteria’s closed.”
    “Okay. Let me get this straight. Food of any kind, other than that tuna sandwich you’ve got there, is not an option until the cafeteria opens for breakfast? Is that what you’re telling me?”
    She writes something on your clipboard.
    Probably the word “impulsive.”
     
    “WE’RE CONCERNED ABOUT your outlook.” A coven of doctors around your bed staring at you. Now you’re supposed to say something.
    “That’s a coincidence. I’m concerned about your outlook.”
    “The aides say things haven’t been going well. It says here that you’re impulsive.”
    The doctor who is talking is a large misshapen man with a ponytail, a pink face, and