Having the staff tiptoe in and out of my room, the hallways going silent when I was wheeled for testing, and receiving sweet smiles of pity—not my thing.
I embraced those surly feelings. Being grumpy was better than being scared. How was I supposed to ever get better if everyone was acting as if I wouldn’t?
I would.
Something became abundantly clear: I was strong. I was a fighter. I didn’t know the full extent of my condition when I was brought in, but to have been in a comma for almost three months and basically had my mind completely wiped and still survive? That made me strong.
So although the stillness in my mind as I searched for something, anything at all, about myself was most certainly unnerving—and so was being in the hospital all alone (why was I alone?)—I would figure it out. Somehow.
The door to my room opened, and the doctor walked in wearing his signature white coat over a set of green scrubs. His gray hair was combed back, his stethoscope around his neck, and he carried a clipboard.
I groaned. “Please tell me I don’t have to look at more flashcards.”
He smiled. “Not a fan of the cards?”
“Maybe if I was in kindergarten,” I said grudgingly.
The doctor laughed. “Ah, should we add sense of humor to your list of traits?” he asked as he pulled up a rolling stool near the bed. He was in here so much (along with a slew of other doctors), they actually just kept the stool in the room.
“I think it’s too soon to tell,” I muttered.
I wouldn’t call what I said humor; it was more like angry sarcasm with a hint of prayer. Since I’d woken, I’d been subjected to test after test and a ginormous pile of flashcards. We spent quite a bit of time holding up cards with pictures on them and me saying what I saw. They weren’t pretty pictures either. It was images of things like a cow, a hamburger, a car, a man, a woman, etc. Basically, the doctors had to figure out the level at which my brain dumped all its info.
So far, I knew everything except any single thing about myself or how I got here.
And my name?
Still didn’t have a clue.
I started telling everyone to call me Amnesia. It’s what I was. Who I was. They all thought I was joking (ah, maybe that was also why the doc wanted to write down sense of humor), but I wasn’t. They had to call me something.
“No flashcards today. I think it’s pretty safe to say you know about the general world around you.”
“So then…?” I asked, wondering what fun new things were waiting.
“I was hoping you could tell me about yesterday,” he said as if we were having a friendly conversation.
“Yesterday?”
He nodded. “What you did, what you ate, who you spoke to. That sort of thing.”
“It should all be there in my chart.” I frowned. “Everything I do here is written down.”
He smiled briefly. “Yes, I’m well aware. I want to hear it from you. It’s so I can ascertain some details about your memory loss. See if you can recall things that have happened since you woke.”
I went through my extremely exciting day yesterday, even adding in the part about not liking bananas. The nurse said they were good, but she lied. Those things were mushy and nasty. I wouldn’t be taking food advice from her again.
For extra bonus points, I added in the details I remembered about right after I woke from my coma. As he listened, he jotted down notes on the top sheet of paper. It was a little strange to realize everything I knew about myself was literally right there in a stack of papers.
How could I have so little sense of self?
“Miss?” the doctor said, and I jerked my head up.
“Amnesia.” I reminded him.
He frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good name. I’ll have one of the nurses bring you a book of baby names and you can choose something for yourself.”
“I like Amnesia,” I rebutted, stubborn.
“Why?” he inquired. He sounded like the head shrink that also came to see me.
Shrugging one shoulder, I replied, “Because it describes who I am. A total loss of memory.”
“You don’t think you’re more than that?”
“Sure, but I haven’t figured out what yet.”
“Do you have the desire to figure out who you are? What your likes and dislikes are?”
Slowly I nodded. It was a daunting task it seemed, but really, what choice did I have? My nose wrinkled. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Your current condition is very rare and can be accompanied by a great sense of loss, depression, and overall hopelessness.”
“What is my current condition?”
“Have you had any memories or recollections at all today? Any sort of flashbacks or thoughts that felt more like memories? Dreams when you sleep?” the doctor asked, sidestepping my question.
“No, and when I try, there’s just… nothing.” I spread out my hands as if I were just as confused as he probably was.
“What do you think about?”
“Mostly I wonder what happened to me and how badly I got hurt.”
“Do you think about the future?”
“It’s hard to think about the future when I have no idea where I came from. And also when I have very little idea of what my present is.”
“Do you feel anything at all—anything, no matter how small an inkling it might be—when you turn into your own thoughts? Or even when you try to remember? Pain? Fear? Sadness?”
I opened my mouth to reply, then snapped it shut. I felt an inkling of something, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to say it out loud. I couldn’t say nothing, though, because Dr. Beck already picked up on the fact I’d been about to say something. “I am scared,” I whispered. “But I don’t think it’s to remember… Well, maybe it is. I don’t know.”
He nodded slowly. Then he seemed to make up his mind. Adjusting the clipboard in his lap, he glanced up. “I believe you have what most refer to as fugue or dissociative amnesia. As I mentioned, this is a very rare condition, and admittedly, I’ve never treated anyone with it.”
“Why?” I asked simply. It didn’t bother me I was his first patient like this. It was my first time, too.
Well, uh, I thought it was.
“Patients with fugue amnesia forget their entire past but also their identity. They have no idea who they are. Even reminding them who they are, showing pictures, etc. doesn’t jog their memory.”
“Why does it happen?”
“Well, in most cases, it’s because the person has suffered something severely traumatic. So much so their mind wipes out everything as a protective measure.”
“Well, that seems a little overboard,” I muttered.
He paused, scribbled something, and then glanced up. I got the feeling my less-than-freaked-out attitude wasn’t something to be proud of. I didn’t know how else to be, though.
“When you were brought in, you were completely unresponsive. There was a large gash in the back of your head and another lump on your temple. Your body temperature was low, breathing very shallow, and you had quite a bit of water in your lungs. Frankly, I was surprised you were alive.”