skull replacement

MR. JONES was the first person to show up for my tea group yesterday. “Good morning,” I said. “Any word yet on when you’re getting your skull put back in?” “Doc,” he said, “I have an appointment tomorrow. I’m hoping he’ll set a date.” And with that brief exchange I could gauge how much progress he’d made since the last time I saw him, the Thursday before Christmas.

     A burly biker-type, he’d spent the first few months after his motorcycle accident in a fog of confusion, but in December his personality had begun to re-emerge, and yesterday, finally, he knew who I was when he saw my face. He knew he was missing a piece of his skull and had to wear a helmet to protect his soft spot. And his memory was working well enough for him to remember his appointment with the surgeon. All signs of progress. He took off his helmet and sat in his usual place.

     Others filed into the classroom after him. Mr. Fontana, a former marathon runner, now blind and mute, who enjoys attending the group despite the fact that he’s unable to swallow anything safely, even a sip of tea. (We hold the tea up to his nose for him to smell it.) Mr. Washington, a quadriplegic with limited use of his arms and hands. Mr. Lopez, also in a wheelchair, who speaks English as a second language and is difficult to understand because of a speech impairment. Mr. Benton, a young twenty-something, able to walk but haltingly. His attendant close behind. A therapy student I’d never met before. And lastly JB, who helps with the logistics of it all, rounding out the bunch.

     I served two teas. In the small ceramic pot I brewed a woodsy oolong I bought near the cathedral in Bayeux last summer, and in the large cast iron pot I brewed a blackberry sage black tea. The exercise we do together is the same from week to week. I ask for a moment of silence as I direct everyone’s attention to the sound the hot water makes pouring from the kettle onto the tea leaves in the basket. When the tea’s ready we go through the other four senses one by one, smelling, seeing, feeling and tasting the tea together.

     After tea time I plugged my phone into the wall — the classroom is wired for sound — and played a liquid-sounding ambient track from the electronic artist Blanck Mass, and we imagined we were swimming underwater, sunlight pouring into the ocean all around us, tea still warm in our bellies.

     The guys in wheelchairs exited first. Mr. Fontana, Mr. Washington, Mr. Benton limping along. Mr. Jones was the last to leave. He snapped his helmet into place and stood. “When I'm back home,” he said, “I'm gonna make tea for my girlfriend. And we're gonna sit and talk and just enjoy our time together.” I said, “I think she's gonna like that.”