09-30-16

Twin Letters – Starting with Dria
Letter 1

Dear Drew,

I feel the best way to build our communication may be in the form of writing. After all, aren't you the Master of one form of writing? We have years of catching up to do – perhaps millennia. For you, I was only gone four years, however for me, I can't remember anything before that. And then, there is there is the histories of our planets, we must learn – did we ever know each other in the past?
How can I explain to you the pain I feel? I've felt so much pain everyday of my life, since I awoke from that coma in the hospital, not even knowing who I am. Then to learn that I may never remember the past; that was excruciating. And now? To finally have my family and past confirmed – and not remember a single thing about them? And live among them… I… I know you, I know you in my heart, but that is all. Not by name, not by face. By heart.
I don't know if anything in life could be as painful, except maybe losing your twin and best friend for years, not knowing if they alive or dead, and yet when you finally find them, they have no memory of you whatsoever, as you have. Perhaps we share similar levels of pain.
As … brother… and … sister.. we may have to make the journey of healing together, as we have joined each other on our other journey.
So...the beginning days of what I remember of my life; flashes. Flashes of water and sky, and debris. With patches of darkness and light intermingled. A sky full of storms, and yet bright sun, then full of stars. Over and over again, it seemed to take forever. Then nothing. For a long time. Then sand beneath me. Sky. Someone standing above me. Then nothing. Brief images of hospital, doctors, surgeons, and nurses. Then a refreshing sleep.
Finally, I awoke. Awoke to wires and IVs, cords and beeps. I was covered in bandages; I was still not fully coherent, however, things were beginning to connect – it was the first I actually realized I was in a hospital. At this time though, I could not move or speak. All I could do was slowly open and close my eyes. I was in a lot of physical pain, but it was dulled. In the meantime, I frantically struggled to understand why I was here, what they were doing to me, and the fact that I didn't know who I was. Did they know? Before I could come up with an answer, I passed out again.
Over the next few months, I occasionally woke up. Sometimes Nurses and or Doctors would be there. Sometimes not. They'd change my bandages, change my catheter, examine me, etc. They'd calmly explain to me what they were going to, addressing as Miss Jane, Janie, or Jane Doe. I hated the name Janie so much, that the last time I forced my mouth to move and said, “Dria.” The nurses' jaws dropped, and one of them asked, “What did you say, Janie?” “My name is Dria.” I croaked out and promptly passed out from the ordeal.
They sedated me for a long time after that – that I might regain my strength. And I did. The next time I woke up, all the equipment was gone, as well as most of the bandages. My movement was only restricted, by my extreme weakness – having been hurt all this time. The lady doctor was there with some nurses. She called me Dria, and told me that I had been found on the beach in a bedraggled mess, six months before. For about three months as I slipped in and out of consciousness, the surgeons repaired my body, racing against the clock, as my life was slowly whittled away – not only was my body in bad shape, there was a small chunk of coral that had lodged in my brain stem – I was lucky I was not dead or permanently paralyzed when I washed up onshore – but I had been temporarily paralyzed for awhile. They now more concerned about brain damage. How much did I remember? Nothing. Except being called Dria.
Dria