THE UNCLEAN BRAIN

BY MATTHEW LUCAS BECKETT. I was born in the late summer of 2002, even though by then I had already been alive for nearly nine years. Born not out of the warmth of thee womb, but out of the cold of a coma. I was told that it was a car crash, although I do not remember the crash, nor have I ever remembered anything from before the crash, except perhaps the theme song from a Saturday morning cartoon. Originally, they just said that I had had a head injury, although later in my life they came out with the formal, more medical sounding term, Traumatic Brain Injury. Whatever you call it, I had to start over from square one. Fortunately, for the most part, I was a fast learner. Over the next five years, I had a lot of doctors appointments and all kinds of therapy; speech, physical, occupational, cognitive, etc. Fortunately, my parents health insurance understood the meaning of the term and was willing ti help pay for it. But then .when my dad changed jobs and so our insurance company changed . . “Dear MR. and MRS. Cruiz, we are happy to grant the two of you full coverage under our plan. However, because of your daughter Martha's Traumatic Brain Injury back in 2002, her preexisting condition makes her ineligible for any coverage at all. . .” I didn't hear the rest of the letter. It didn't matter. It was the kid on the playground in fourth grade who called me a retard because I talked funny all over again. Not that it was a total surprise. That was not the first time I had heard that term, it was just with the Health Insurance my parents had already had when I got injured, it was not a “preexisting” condition. What did shock me was my uncle's reaction to hearing about this. “Well, Matt,” he said. “People with unclean brains like you should not have Health Insurance. It is only for Healthy People, and you've been sick for the past six years.  Now they want to say insurance businesses have to cover people like you. Well, I won't have it. Take this.” He hands me a cow bell on a necklace. I stare in confusion. “Put it around your neck,,” he sys. “Whenever you go out. As you approach people, bang it and shout 'unclean brain', so that no one else gets near you and catches your disease.” “Traumatic Brain Injury is not communicable, Uncle Mike,” I protest. “So they say, Matt,” he replies. “But the fact that your parents let you continue to live with them after your release from the hospital, medical waste that you are, suggests otherwise. But wear this and use it whenever you go out if you want to live to see fifteen, Matt.” I stare at him a long time, hoping that he will say he is just kidding, because he is quite a kidder, but there is nothing but hate in his face. “OK,” I say at last. “I'll do this. But from now on, it's Martha to you. Only family and friends call me Matt, and with this you and I are neither.” So, for the next two months, despite my parents objections, every time I go out, I wear Uncle Mike's Bell, bang it and shout “Unclean Brain. Unclean Brain.” A few people move aside as if from a disease, but most people just look at me like I'm crazy, which often causes them to move aside as well. But then. .. “If we want to make the movie, we need to go, right now,” says my mom. We rush out the door, race to the theater, get our tickets and find our seats. As we leave two and a half hours later, however, Uncle Mike is waiting, with a knife in his hand. “Where is your bell, Martha?” he demands. “We didn't have time for that ridiculous thing, Mike. . .” my dad begins, but before he can go farther Uncle Mike's knife is in my chest and everything goes black.