It seems that this week was “Bob Woodruff Week” on ABC. Remember he was the ABC anchor injured while reporting in Iraq last year. An IED shot rocks through his upper body and into his brain. Watching the recent coverage of his 13-month (and counting) recovery process, I saw a small reflection of my own recovery through his.

That’s because his TBI (traumatic brain injury) affected, among other things, his brain’s language centers. He woke up with auditory processing problems just like mine, and just like me had trouble remembering words for the most simple objects. Just like me he didn’t know if he was identifying objects correctly, or pronouncing even the simplest words in the right way. I nodded my head. “I know that feeling,” I wanted to tell him through the television. It’s as if the brain and the mouth become disconnected, operating independently, not necessarily of the same body.

Weeks after my surgery, I’m closer to normal. I still lose or misuse words, and I still have moments when I feel like my mouth and brain aren’t communicating like they’re supposed to. But those issues are small, and manageable. I was sent home with the faith that in short time, everything would be okay. Bob Woodruff’s recovery continues, over a year after the IED. He spent weeks at the hospital receiving the best care possible. Once home his care continued, supported by a large network of family and friends, and subsidized by ABC.

But I wonder about the people who experience brain injuries and don’t have large family networks to deliver humor, make mint tea at 2am, fetch groceries or feed the cat. I wonder about the people who don’t have comfortable jobs with employers who offer robust disability packages and comprehensive health insurance. What do they do?

And I think about the people who rested in the hospital alone. In the six days at the hospital, I was almost never alone. But what about the people who didn’t have someone keeping them company while they lay in the hospital bed, advocating for them and fluffing the pillows? What about the people who didn’t have a second ear listening to the doctor’s directions and advice? What do they do?

I think about those people, and even though I’m supposed to focus on recuperating and getting back to whatever normalcy I had before the AVM hemorrhaged, I make lists in my head, on my bathroom mirrors, in my recovery notebook. What do they do? And if they can’t, what can I do?