My Ex-Boyfriend Died…Except He’s Still Alive

Four years ago, my ex-boyfriend died.

No, not the kind of death you’re thinking. A different kind of death.

It was about four months after we had broken up. He was dating other girls. He and I were pretty distant, but we were there for each other when it mattered. We considered ourselves still friends. I wasn’t over him, but I was trying.

And then something terrible happened.

One frigidly cold January day, I got a text from his mother in the afternoon telling me he was in the hospital with a brain injury.

I didn’t know what to say. My boyfriend was in trouble.

My boyfriend, the one I was still in love with, the one who had kissed me in front of my parents and showed his dimples when he laughed and kept the movie tickets from our first date tucked into his wallet. My boyfriend, the sweet guy who let me sleep on him on Friday nights while we watched TV and brought me slippers when my feet got cold and hugged me warmly when I cried. My boyfriend, the goofy one, who played guitar at four in the morning and left me cheesy voicemails and watched the stars with me.

He was in trouble. He was in pain.

“Is he going to be OK?” I asked his mother.

She couldn’t seem to answer.

“We’re not sure right now,” she said calmly. “He — he has amnesia.”

I stopped in my tracks.

Amnesia?

“Oh, my God,” I said.

She sighed. “The doctors think he could get better, but they’re not sure. They’re optimistic, but they say sometimes these injuries can be lifelong. He’ll probably get some of his memories back, slowly, but there’s no guarantees. But he’s young, they said. He has a chance.”

I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. “I understand,” I said. There was a pause. “Would it be OK if I came to visit him?”

“Not today,” she answered calmly. “He just needs to rest tonight — I don’t think he should see anyone. I’ll keep in touch, though. I would love for you to see him.”

Selfishly, I thought maybe he would remember me. He had made me so many promises. We were going to spend the rest of our lives together. When the world crumbled or everyone else went their separate ways, we’d be together. If he ever dated someone else, he said, he was going to think of me every time he kissed her. I’ll never forget you, as long as I live, he used to promise me. You’re the girl for me. I know it. And no matter what happens to us, whether we’re together or not, or if you break up with me, I’ll be here. I’m still gonna love you.

Those words seemed like they were years away. He was dating other girls now. He seemed like he had forgotten me completely.

But this — this was something I never could’ve expected.

The next day, with his mom’s approval, I went to visit him. I was with a friend. She had also been close with him for those past few years.

When we walked in, the house was quiet. His room was quiet. His mom looked terrified. He couldn’t even remember her. Or his dad, or his sister, or anyone.

He was so different. His hair, usually perfectly groomed, was tousled and messy. He was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt rather than his usual expensive blue jeans and sweaters. His expression was empty. Usually he was so animated and exaggerative and smiley.

Sitting there, staring at him, I knew I loved him more than ever. I wanted to be by his side through this. I wanted us to make it through, to be together in the end. I wanted to save him. And if I couldn’t save him, I wanted to be the one who waited with him while he healed.

But there was a long road ahead. I knew that.

When his mom and our mutual friend left the room, he grabbed my hand and held it. He stroked my skin with his thumb, the way he used to when we were dating while we were watching a movie or sitting on the couch together or out to dinner. I felt him again. He was doing something his old self would’ve done. But how could he hold my hand if he had no idea who I was?

I looked up at him and we stared right into each other’s eyes and he said, “Hi,” so softly and sweetly that it sounded like him again too, his same voice and tone and his calm smile. I blushed. It felt like there were sparks again.

When I left that day, I still had hope. He barely knew his own name, much less who I was (unless he was lying about it all — which, I suppose, wasn’t entirely out of the question) but I felt him again.

For a moment, everything was going to be okay.

Fast-forward two months. He had spent three weeks in recovery. He went to the doctor frequently, getting several MRIs trying to determine the location and severity of the damage to his brain. No one seemed to know what to do, though, and even when test results came back, there were no guarantees of anything, as there typically aren’t with unpredictable brain injuries.

Finally, after a few weeks, he did heal a little bit and recover some memories. But he was different; he was not the guy I fell in love with. I guess it was selfish and naive for me to even think that he’d make it out of that situation with his personality unscathed. But he was young and healthy. I had hope.

He finally remembered me, and my friends, and his friends, and his family. He remembered experiences that had happened years ago, memories we had made together.

But this meant nothing. Because he was a changed man — and not in the good way.

He was promiscuous. He basically slept with anything that moved, and his personality turned more aggressive and demanding, like he always needed to be gratified.

He drifted apart with some of his friends, and he completely cut me out of his life — we never spoke again after that day when I came to visit him at his house. Since then, he’s dated close to twenty girls in a three-and-a-half year timespan. He’s cheated on every single one of them and he still hasn’t had a relationship longer than ours. It’s a far cry from who he once was — a faithful, cheesy, sweet guy, who wrote me love poems and made me drawings and cuddled me.

He never played guitar anymore. He never did art. He never told jokes or tried to make people laugh. When he smiled, I didn’t even recognize him. He didn’t look authentic or happy or anything like himself. And when I looked at old pictures of us, I wanted to sob. I would have given anything to see him smile that way again, the way I remembered.

He was aloof, robotic, rude. He teased people, acted like he was too good for people. The old him would never have done such things. He was such a kindhearted soul, someone who accepted everyone for who they were. I couldn’t believe how much he had changed.

And still, I would have given anything to know him again. The old him, the one I knew and loved. The one who made me feel like I was home when I looked into his eyes. Now I was staring at a stranger.

I couldn’t dig deep and find the lost parts of him. It was literally as if he had died. I talked to my therapist about it.

She explained to me that in very serious traumatic brain injuries such as his, the brain cells die, and parts of that person die with them.

And I grieved him as if he died. I cried for months, years. Even when I got to a place in life where I felt okay, if I saw something that reminded me of him, I would have a relapse of grief.

He was gone.

Except that I had to sit there and stare at him standing in front of me, all the damn time.

It’s a weird experience, knowing that someone you know has died but having to confront a whole different version of them so regularly. It was not easy for me. The grief may have been easier if I didn’t have to see him and his other persona so often; if I had just been able to take time to be away from him, so that I wouldn’t want to burst into tears every time I saw his face and the memories came rushing back.

There is still some debate as to how this story happened. My ex could be dishonest and manipulative at times, and after his concussion, it became even worse. Some people thought maybe he lied about his amnesia or the extent of his injury. I don’t know what to believe. I don’t rule out the possibility, but so much of it will never make sense, whether he lied or exaggerated or not.

But since then, I have found peace. Although this was the man that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, I have found peace. We were each other’s everything. I couldn’t imagine a scenario where my life didn’t end with me by his side, growing old together. I wanted him so much, all the time. I loved him so much, so dearly, eternally.

And sometimes, I think I still do. But I have found peace.

I have grown as a person — a lot. I’ve not dated since him, and I have come to be very comfortable with being single. I’m stronger, more grounded. I enjoy time to myself. I’ve had time to explore my interests and my sexuality and my career and my friendships. I have taken the time to really find value and meaning in my life where I once didn’t dig deep enough.

And I imagine that the old version of me — along with that love — has floated away with the old version of him.

The only possibility is to move forward. I cannot cling to him because he is gone.

And that girl — so hopelessly in love — cannot cling to him either. She died with him, too. And I find peace in that, knowing that there is a new place for me in the world now. I will be able to navigate my own waters, even without someone I love by my side.

Time has helped, too. Every day, I wake up and I feel empowered to face the sunshine and make the most out of my life. I find serenity in mindfulness. I find joy and solidarity in friendships. And when I need to grieve him, I grieve. But I don’t dwell.

So yes, the man I loved did die — except that he’s still alive. And I would never wish it on anyone.

But the person I am — the person that came out of this rubble and found footing — I am so proud of her.

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Previously published on medium

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