Let Me Count the Ways...

76 answering machine messages.
19 phone calls in a two hour period.
253 hours of South Park and That 70’s Show recorded on the DVR.

Remember the scene in Rainman where Raymond counts the spilled toothpicks in the diner and his brother, Charlie Babbitt, is amazed that he gets it correct? That scene is Charlie’s first intimation that Raymond has unusual skills at counting, ultimately leading him to use Raymond’s abilities to count cards in Vegas. There is a lot of counting that goes on at my house, but so far, no one has made any money at it. Now that I think about it, it isn’t always just Eli who’s doing the counting – often it’s me muttering under my breath, “1…2…3…breathe Tanya, have patience Tanya….”

The accident that caused Eli’s severe brain injury happened almost four years ago. He’s come a long way in those years, progressing from being in a coma for several months to studying (and excelling at) high school algebra in preparation to take the GED. Yet it seems that most of our breakdowns involve numbers. Eli can remember my cell phone number, but he doesn’t remember that he’s already called me 6 times to tell me he would like some gum. He very cannily remembers the code to order Pay-per-View movies, yet doesn’t remember ordering the same movie 16 times (at $4.99 a pop). My answering machine stays full because he can’t remember no one answers it since we all have cell phones. Once a week, I have to stand by the machine, push the play button and listen to the robotic voice drone on and on, “You have…76 messages. First message…” Every single message starts outs, “Mooommm…” and then I hit delete, because there are only about 4 reasons he calls:

1) He wants his socks off,
2) He wants some Coke,
3) He wants his iPod/phone charged,
4) He wants a cheeseburger.

He calls at 2:00 a.m. wanting to know why he’s in bed. We tell him it’s the middle of the night and he says, “My bad…I thought it was 2:00 in the afternoon.” He calls to tell us that he’s leaving his daycare center. He calls again to say he’s on the interstate. A third call informs us he’s getting close to our neighborhood, followed by the fourth call that conveys the scintillating news that he’s coming down the hill toward our house. All those calls translate to my counting out large sums of money to pay the cell phone bill.

I count packs of gum to determine how many days it will last him.

I count the hours until he goes to bed and relinquishes the TV remote so I can have some peace and quiet.

And then I count the many ways I should be ashamed.

Because there was a time I sat in an ER waiting room counting down the critical hours that would determine whether he lived or died (24). There were days we watched in horror as the bolt screwed into his head monitoring his ICP rose to 50 and above (and normal should have been about 15). There were months we anxiously watched for a sign that he understood what was going on around him, telling him to blink once for yes, twice for no.

My bad, Eli. You’d think by now I would have learned how to count my blessings, huh?