CHAPTER 137

2026-03-13

After a serious illness, there are many “aftermath” to clean up. Although I sometimes feel discouraged, they are all minor matters—nothing that poses a major threat.

After a major illness, one has to deal with many “aftermath.” In the process of coping with these, I discovered that some habits I had taken for granted since childhood actually involve rather complex mental operations behind them.

Let me begin with my experience after the brain injury.

For example, the most important thing I do every morning is to take my medication. The next task is to charge my mobile phone (its importance is now almost like half a soul). Such a simple task, yet my success rate is only about sixty percent. Since receiving treatment for subdural hematoma early 2017—nine years ago now—this is already the best result I can manage.

The greatest obstacle is the inability to focus wholeheartedly on one task. Charging the phone involves several steps:

(1) connect the phone to the cable;

(2) plug the cable into the socket;

(3) connect it to the power strip;

(4) switch on the power strip;

(5) turn on the computer;

(6) turn on the monitor;

and finally

(7) check whether the phone has started charging.

During this process, my attention is often diverted by other matters or thoughts. Before I realize it, I stop halfway through the charging operation. It is like driving and suddenly changing lanes, heading in another direction—except that this highway has no turnaround point, no signs, and no way to make a U-turn.

Only after an unknown length of time, when I check my phone again, do I discover that the seven charging steps were never completed. I become frustrated and blame myself for repeating the same mistake again and again.

The main reason is that while charging the phone, several small matters are constantly on my mind. If I cannot resist starting one of them, trouble begins.

These include:

(1) preparing breakfast—namely

 (1a) dairy products and

 (1b) bread.

(2) adjusting the curtains beside the computer—

 (2a) tilting the long metal-slat blinds to let sunlight into the room;

 (2b) if the sunlight still seems insufficient, raising the blinds higher.

(3) if the air does not feel fresh enough, opening the window to let air in. If the light and air still feel inadequate, I may even open the large sliding glass door in the living room, which adds several more steps to the process.

As my younger son grew older, he developed his own ideas about sunlight and fresh air. He decides whether to open the window based on how he physically feels. Most of the time, he waits until his body has warmed up before opening it.

Thus, when I think about opening the window, I must consider many additional factors:

(1) Is my younger son at home?

If he is at home but has not yet come out of his room, I must consider

(2) his needs,

(3) his condition,

(4) the weather at that moment,

(5) when he might come out of his room,

(6) what the indoor temperature is right now, and

(7) how wide the window should be opened.

When describing these small matters, one realizes that even the simplest completed task actually requires layers of consideration and practical steps. The brain must look forward and backward, constantly reviewing and evaluating the procedures, the progress, the environment, and the conditions to see whether they are in harmony and whether the goal has been achieved.

My younger son once described my behavior after the brain injury as resembling attention deficit disorder. The most prominent characteristic of this condition is that the person is extremely easily distracted by other things; attention shifts instantly, and with constant shifting it becomes impossible to concentrate long enough to complete a single task.

My present difficulty is mainly a general impairment of short-term memory. This includes:

(1) even things I deliberately try to remember soon fade away;

(2) things that merely pass before my eyes vanish like clouds and smoke. Items I casually set down leave no memory at all. It is not that I forgot them—I never “remembered” them in the first place. That is quite different from ordinary forgetfulness in old age.

That feeling of “never having remembered” something is somewhat like the experience of a dream early this morning. In the dream, I was in the office sorting documents. In the end, I held three files in my hand. For some reasons, they suddenly disappeared. No matter how hard I searched, I could not find them again.

Although this sometimes discourages me, they are all minor matters—nothing that poses a serious problem after all.