Then one day in December, on an afternoon when I was feeling particularly sorry for myself, Nurse Dani waltzed into my room dressed in holly and ivy-patterned Christmas scrubs, carrying a poinsettia wrapped in green foil and tied up with the telltale pink ribbon from the gift shop florist.

“I bet you don’t know who I am,” Dani singsonged.

I knew her, all right. And while I appreciated that she’d likely saved my life back when my spleen ruptured, I still boiled from the weeks of pent-up frustration of being unable to even lift my middle finger while she schemed to steal my oblivious boyfriend from under my almost-dead body.

Figures that a woman in a coma could see what a fully conscious man could not.

Dani placed the poinsettia on my nightstand. “My name is Da-ni,” she said, pointing to her nametag and enunciating slowly as if I were mentally challenged instead of just brain damaged. “How-are-you-feeling-today?”

With my good arm, I swept my dinner tray off the bed stand. Mashed potatoes and peas splattered her Stride Rites.

“Oh!” She jumped back.

Empowered, I barked several times and threw the remote control. It smacked her on the forehead.

“Ow!” She backed up quickly as I continued to throw whatever was in my reach: books, a juice box.

“Quit it!” She ducked inside my bathroom and slammed the door. I happily pelted it with more objects; hairbrush, pudding, a Perrier bottle.

Hearing the noise, Emme rushed in. “What’s going on?” She looked toward the bathroom. The door was spattered with food. Broken glass was everywhere.

“Help!” called Dani.

“Woof, woof-woof,” I explained cheerfully.

Emme went to the bathroom and opened the door. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Well, no wonder.”

It may have been the medication they prescribed after that episode to control my “outbursts,” but after my visit from Dani, I began to feel better.

Brett visited faithfully during recovery. He brought scripts or the trades to read, often falling asleep next to me. After several months when I was able to get around in a wheelchair, Dr. Foreman moved me to a facility where I could begin speech therapy and more intensive physical rehabilitation.

I made slow but steady progress, learning to maneuver in and out of the wheelchair and to write simple words. I was still unable to speak or read anything but the most basic texts. Ironically though, alliterated headlines like “Reiner’s Romp Receives Raves,” from The Hollywood Reporter made perfect sense to my jumbled brain.

I never acknowledged Brett’s big confession. Several times he tested the waters, mentioning Kelly’s name, and when I didn’t react, I knew he was relieved his secret had gone to the grave, even if I hadn’t.