The truth: you have no idea who you are

"A-actually," you say, clearing your throat. "I was kind of hoping...." You look from one to the other, summoning the courage to say what needed to be said. "I was kind of hoping that you could tell me."

Dr. Pembrost sighed. The nursing assistant looked away, obviously discouraged.

"I was hoping this wouldn't happen," said Dr. Pembrost. "But with your kind of trauma, it's a definite possibility."

"What kind of trauma?", you ask.

Dr. Pembrost looked down at her hands, which rested lightly on the metal footboard. They were long, sinewy hands. The hands of a pianist or an artist. Or a surgeon.

"What is it? What happened to me?" you ask, trying your best to keep the panic out of your voice.

Dr. Pembrost raised her head and gave you a serious, searching look. Her eyes are large, slightly almond-shaped and dark brown. They are the eyes of a serious, sensitive, intelligent woman.

"I have something to tell you, Joh--sir," she says, correcting herself. "But first, I would like to reassure you that everything that can be done has been done to repair any of the damage that your body has suffered."

She paused.

"Yes? It's ok. Just tell me," you say. You hate the tone of pleading that has crept into your voice. But what could have happened to you? What could be so serious that she felt hesitant to tell you?