Page 24 of Down Knot Out
The black-and-white image of my skull stares back at me. I’m not sure what I expected. Perhaps a visible crack or a glowing spot marking the source of the pain that’s been my constant companion. Instead, there’s just… me. Bones and shadows.
“Then why does it still feel like someone’s driving a railroad spike through my temple whenever the lights are too bright? It’s been four weeks.”
Chloe shifts in her seat beside me, her knee bumping mine, and the contact sends a spark up my leg that distracts me from the pain.
“What you’re experiencing is called Post-Concussion Syndrome, or PCS.” The doctor leans forward, elbows on his desk. “It’s not uncommon after a head injury like yours, even when there’s no visible damage on imaging tests.”
“How long will it last?” Chloe asks, her voice tight with concern.
Dr. Matthews presses his lips together. “It varies. Some patients recover in a few weeks, others experience symptoms for months.”
The word ‘months’ hits me like a physical blow. I think of the work piling up in my office and the investors I’ve already had to reschedule meetings with.
“PCS symptoms can include headaches,dizziness, fatigue, irritability, and sensitivity to light and noise, all of which match what you’ve been reporting.” Dr. Matthews peers down at the notes on his computer, tipping his head back to read through his lenses rather than pushing his glasses up. “You may also experience difficulty concentrating, memory problems, sleep disturbances, and in some cases, anxiety or depression.”
“Great,” I mutter, my fingers curling into frustrated fists on my thighs.
Chloe’s knee rubs mine as she shifts, and I catch a whiff of her distress, a singed note cutting through her floral scent.
“The good news,” Dr. Matthews continues, “is that with proper management, most people make a full recovery. The brain needs time to heal, just like any other injured part of the body.”
Chloe leans forward, intent on the doctor’s face. “What can he do to help it along?”
“There are a few things.” He smiles at her before turning back to me. “Rest is crucial. Cognitive rest as well as physical. That means limiting screen time, avoiding challenging mental tasks, and giving yourself permission to take breaks.”
I nod, the movement sending a fresh wave of pain through my temples.
“I’m prescribing medication for the headaches, which should help with the light sensitivity as well.” He taps away on his computer, the clatter of keys sharp to my sensitive ears. “You should also avoid alcohol, caffeine, and other stimulants.”
“No coffee?” I groan.
“Try decaf.” The whir of the printer sounds, and he spins in his chair to grab the papers. “I also recommend gentle exercise as tolerated. Walking is good, but nothing that raises your heart rate too much or risks another head injury.”
I take the paperwork, still warm from the printer, and fold it before slipping it into my pocket, next to the hard lump that’s been burning a hole there all morning.
“When can I return to work?”
“Start with half days, if possible.” Dr. Matthews’s face is sympathetic but firm. “No heavy lifting, no operating machinery or power tools. No climbing ladders or scaffolding.”
The frustration builds. “So I can’t even help with painting?”
“Not for a few weeks.” He taps his fingers on the desk. “Listen to your body. If symptoms worsenwith activity, that’s your brain telling you to back off.”
I feel Chloe gauging my reaction, so I force my expression to remain neutral.
“What about driving?” she asks.
“Short distances should be fine, as long as the headaches aren’t severe and you’re not experiencing any dizziness or visual disturbances.” His focus shifts between us. “Do you have someone who can drive you when needed?”
“Yes,” Chloe answers before I can speak. “He has… we have people who can help.”
At the slight stumble in her words, warmth unfurls inside me despite the pain. The acknowledgment of our courtship, tentative as it is, signifies progress.
Dr. Matthews prints out several more sheets and hands them to me. They display diagrams of brains and bullet-pointed lists of symptoms. “These explain PCS in more detail. There’s also information about vestibular therapy, which might help if the dizziness persists.”
The papers slide against each other as I add them to my pocket. “Anything else I should know?”
“Be patient with yourself.” His expression holdskindness. “The brain is complex. Healing isn’t always linear. You might have good days and bad days.”
