I'm not great with details any more (my mom says I used to be super-organised, not that I remember that), but I recall feelings, and the memories I have of hospital seem to involve an immovable knot of frustration in my stomach.
I hated the physio sessions where I was taught to exert fine control over my movements, and eventually walk unaided again; I said more than once that I hated my physiotherapist and I really meant it. I understand now why he was making me do things that heightened my level of anxiety, but at the time, his slow-races made me want to scream.
I much preferred occupational therapy; colours, shapes and numbers were largely unaffected by the design modification of my brain. And there was a pleasing lack of horrible man making me do things I didn't want to do (who always did it with my parents' consent to make matters worse!). It's pretty blurry, but I do know that after a month they decided I had recovered sufficiently to be discharged as I could walk unaided and was making good progress (apparently...I was just pleased to be going home).
My thought processes mostly involved stupour. The world I saw around me made no sense, and probably to start sorting through the jumble of events that unfolded around me, I started commentating on the things I saw - I would append "said Mom/Dad/Adam/even my own name" to people's words. My stated motivation for that is actually conjecture, but it fits with the overwhelming sense of confusion I remember from those days.
I was kept off school for a term and a half, but my schooling continued at home with a tutor who would come in to work with me, but this wasn't the language reasoning exercises I was still reasonably good at, it was exercises that challenged me to interpret situations (something I still struggle with even 20 years later).
When I did finally go back to school it was a much different place than I expected. I had no friends because I no longer understood what friends were, or more accurately what friendships involved. The teachers of the subjects I had excelled in before I was run over continued to like me in spite of the drop in my abilities. But soon people (my teachers as well as my peers) forgot what had happened to me, what I had to live with every day, and criticism and frustration took the place of benevolence. I was alone in a bubble, in a world I did not understand, with people I didn't understand and few of whom even tried, let alone succeeded, to understand me.
My dad would take me to more physio, I would go to school, go home and do whatever it was I did, and things continued not to make sense. There must surely have been a rehabilitation plan, but I was certainly not aware of it just as I was not aware of any plans whatsoever. The early days made no sense so looking back in the context of the way I now think, with somewhat restored planning skills, there seems to be a lack of cohesion, but that very lack of cohesion probably did me a favour because beyond the trouble I was having with my motor skills, I was, like a baby who is only concerned with its next meal or its wet nappy, I was blissfully unaware of pretty much anything.
To be continued (maybe)...