Forgetfulness

[vaneramos]

From the hall window yesterday, 4:37 pm.

~~~~~~~~~~

In March 2003 I lay in a hospital bed recovering from a second round of surgery to repair an accidental injury to my gut. The pain was intense, so I had been given a pain pump to deal with it. Pressing a button allowed me to take a small dose of morphine whenever I wanted it, up to a certain limit. I needed a considerable amount to make myself comfortable enough to sleep, so I would press for more during the evenings.

One night I awoke around midnight. My memories were completely gone. I couldn't remember who I was, where I was, or what I was doing there. If I hadn't been so sedated, I would have had a fit. I lay in a dark ward with the door open. I could see the flood of pale light over the sheets where my feet stuck up at the end of the bed. Whose feet were they? Why was I in pain? I lay there for some time trying to piece things together.

The first recovered strand arose from anxiety and family dysfunction. I thought that my parents, who are deeply mistrustful of drugs, would find out about this and try to take me out of the hospital. I sensed the hospital was the right place for me. Then I remembered I had brought a list of my friend's phone numbers. All I had to do was remember who the names on that list belonged to.

Soon I remembered the name of the nurse on duty and buzzed for her. She came and spoke kindly. By then I realized this was an effect of the morphine and would wear off quickly. I just wanted someone to talk to because it was frightening. She kept me company for a little while. I used the pain pump as little as I could bear until my head cleared. By 3 am I had my identity back.

It was, without comparison, the most terrifying experience of my life. I feel sorrow for people who, because of cancer or other painful illnesses, must fade out of life that way, not knowing why, or who their loved ones are. I dread that kind of death.

Today in the Globe and Mail I read this fascinating article, "Marooned in the moment," about people who suffer from amnesia (it should be free to read until December 13; I have printed a copy of it). It describes our three levels of memory. The episodic memory, the autobiographical details of our lives, is most vulnerable to damage. Reading the article, I experienced a creeping realization that I have always had difficulty with this level of memory.

I can recognize people I knew years ago or remember how to get from place to another, familiar facts. But trying to recall a conversation seems harder for me than most people. To learn how to do something, I must repeat it over and over until it is recorded in the deeper explicit memory system. I cannot remember from one year to the next how to drain the water line at the cottage. I can't even prepare my favourite recipes without instructions, though I may have made them dozens of times before. It's easier to refer to words on a card rather than trying to dredge up old memories of how I've done things. Improvisation is nearly impossible.

Like the people interviewed in this article, I can hardly remember movies a week after I've seen them, or books that I've read. Discussing or writing about them immediately afterwards improves my recall. On the other hand, I could tell you the sequence of events in a novel I read repeatedly as a child, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe; that, apparently has been consigned to the explicit memory system, too.

I don't know how I managed school. I have an IQ of 143, which probably helped. I easily grasped conceptual ideas like calculus and colour theory. But history gave me more problems than any other subject, details I could only learn by tedious repetition, or more often by cramming immediately before a test and then losing it all. In university I started running into problems memorizing the names of appendages on all those marine invertebrates. Why on earth did I choose biology as a field of study? Nothing could have been more difficult for me to learn. I balk at the prospect of trying to learn an employable skill; I'll forget anything unless I repeat it ad nauseum.

I'm not as bad off as the people interviewed for this article. I know what has gone on with my life, generally. But ask me to remember one conversation I had in the past week, and I would by hard pressed. Last night I sat in the -bar for a few minutes alone with Jon before others arrived to play euchre. I have to start framing the incident in its context: Christmas is coming, we both have children, I hadn't seen him for a couple weeks. On that basis I can infer what our general topics of conversation must have been, and then I remember he invited me to a party on New Years Day.

I'm not sure what this means. Memory problems are symptomatic of depression and anxiety, but this pall of forgetfulness even hangs over the periods of my life when I was not depressed. I believe this is one of the difficulties I have with relationships: that I have trouble gauging where I stand with people because I can't remember conversations. This thing is the worst. Sometimes when I get busy with something and don't have time to communicate regularly with my friends, I forget that I'm even connected. Then I start to panic.

Keeping it simple helps. Somehow I manage that with Danny, my daughters and a few close friends.

I love writing because the words lie there on the page in front of me. Often upon having recorded an incident I will read it over and over, that way it becomes part of my experience. I love seeing the images play again through my mind's eye, in complete accord with the prose.

~~~~~~~~~~

I worked on today's post a lot longer than has been my recent custom. It seems important. I think I need to devote more time to rereading my old journals and email.

Comments

[halation.livejournal.com]

wow
i want to say 'this is an intense post' but that sounds so contrived
so i don't know what to say
but i felt like i was right there with you
it felt very real
you captured it

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

It's ironic that I remember the events of that night so vividly. I guess terror heightened my awareness, implanted it on my memory, along with the intense relief of having the nurse come and stand by me, helping me reconnect.

[quirkstreet.livejournal.com]

I have experienced memory loss at second hand. When we were caring for my Grandmother after her stroke, she often didn't know who we were, and wondered where her mother or older sisters were. It was clearly very distressing for her. And for us, not to be recognized after all the years and all the time we were spending caring for her.

I notice myself starting to be less able to keep all the little details in memory that I once did. It's a bit scary.

My memory has always been odd: very strong on freely-associated details, decent but not outstanding at things I *willed* myself to recall. I, too, got into trouble in college, with math: I just couldn't make myself remember how some of the more complicated functions behaved. And as a physics major, that was a crisis.

But ask me about a factoid I read in National Geographic in 1977, and it's quite likely I'll know. Example: the nation of Djibouti was formerly the French colony of Afars and Issas.

And Brian McGee was the first drummer for Simple Minds.

And Ursula LeGuin once referred to a mistranslation that appeared in a French version of her novel Rocannon's World as "a triumph of French rationalism in the service of madness." Though at this point, I imagine I'm not quoting EXACTLY.

I have an odd brain. But I think that's why I like you so much. Kinfolk. :)

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

I haven't had much experience with memory loss in the elderly. My family seems to stay sharp as tacks. The one exception was my paternal grandmother who went through a series of small strokes during her last years. She began confusing Dad with his father, in fact she only seemed to remember her early adulthood. The only family member she could consistently identify was my Mom (her daughter-in-law), whom carried the burden of looking after most of Mimi's problems. Fortunately she was able to afford good care.

It didn't make her miserable, in fact quite the opposite. She had been a fussy worrywart, and grew progressively more cheerful. The last time I saw her, she thought I was her sweetheart and flirted outrageously. It was bizarre coming from such someone who had never shown a hint of passion about anything.

You seem to have taken your lot with better grace than I. I don't mind missing the trivia and details, but it's really frustrating when I realize how hard (or impossible) it is for me to learn a new skill. Even more frustrating when I recall how dismissive my former psychiatrist was about this problem, then turned around and lectured me about training for a trade.

I feel a little alarmed right now, not just by the memory problems but by the whole collection of symptoms. The fact that I'm not suicidal or talking to walls is making it hard for me to find anyone in social services who will take it seriously, or at best they may take it seriously but not have any resources available expect for emergency cases. But I'm having trouble finding my way forward on my own.

[quirkstreet.livejournal.com]

Well, your former psychiatrist was a dick, wasn't he? The worry is whether they're all like that. I'm betting they're not, but I definitely don't want to overlook the way it feels to you.

I wonder, sweetie, if this is a part of the growth and healing process that simply isn't well understood. There have been times when I came to realize something about my limitations or even my "damage" that felt like it set me back a long way, confronting me with my imperfections and the difficulties I would face.

I mean, there are days OFTEN lately when I think about how hard it sometimes feels to concentrate because I haven't gotten a good enough night's sleep and something like allergies are acting up. And I sit and think, "Why is it such a struggle for a person as bright as I to cope with these things? This is all stuff I can do. Am I wrong to remember myself as someone who used to do things so much more easily?"

I feel so lazy and unproductive sometimes. Or overworked and unproductive!

It only takes a night or two off my CPAP, however, to face me with how much worse my life could be. Pounding headaches reassert themselves, my emotional state gets more fragile, etc. And I think back to how much MORE emotionally touchy I was before years of therapy, and meds.

I also look at how much I really do get done now that would have been beyond my powers in those days I fondly recall and think were so much easier. I mean, I could get WORK done, but I had precious little emotional life with other people. Now I've got more of a family together.

So as much as it sometimes feels like I have a lot to deal with, I also value the learning I've done about how to take care of myself.

I'm sorry that thinking about these things has put you in the state of realizing how much coping there is to do. Is it horribly Pollyanna of me to say that I already see you coping so well with so much, and learning your way through things better all the time, as hard as it feels?

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

Thanks, Pete. I realized after I answered your comment that I'm having a relatively bad day. And I knew why right away: last night I went out, played euchre and had several glasses of wine. I didn't get a typical hangover, but the depression certainly hit me later in the day. I've been pretty good about not having more than one drink lately; it makes me realize that if I permit myself more, I can expect to pay for it.

The frustration I expressed is real. I didn't post about it, but I had a discouraging interview with the intake worker about 10 days ago. He could not refer me to a psychiatrist. I know what my next steps ought to be, but first I was busy with NaNo, and now that November is over I'm feeling aimless and unmotivated.

The good news is all the writing I'm still doing. I look at my November archives and there's a solid month of daily posts, all in the new style. There were days I didn't want to, but that didn't stop me. And I bet if I counted my handwritten morning pages, there would be at least 25 entries. All than in addition to writing a 50,000 word novel. But last year while writing the novel I dropped all my other writing, and December was a disaster. This year, I knew I had to work very hard and keep it ALL going.

The bad news is I have isolated myself again. I've had scarce contact with my Guelph friends this fall, I'm not singing in the choir, and although my LJ relationships didn't suffer as much as last year, I can still feel it. I wasn't depressed about it while I was busy with the novel (that was so invigorating), but the past few days it has hit me hard. In fact without the deadline hanging over me, I've lost momentum toward finishing the last few chapters.

Anyway, I'm taking stock. Hopefully I'll feel better tomorrow, i.e. more competent to work toward more control of my life.

[trinker.livejournal.com]

Oh.

How interesting. I have some of that, but not to the same extent. I think that it might stem, in my case from a head injury at 17. I'm thankful that the agony chorus is gone from my head (the bits that tell one all about the horrible screw ups in the past, the voice that berates one at stop signs), but I'm afraid that I'm losing other things in the mean time.

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

The article was pretty interesting, too. It explained how brain injuries effect memory, and why it only affects some levels and not others. I guess some of this is inevitable with aging, although my family seems pretty clear in that regard, so I just hope this doesn't get worse.

[poetbear.livejournal.com]

i have an odd brain myself. i'm ADD, and if
it weren't for my IQ(144)i probably would have had
a hellish time in school! my mom had an awful time with her memory the last 6 months of her life, forgetting things
from the past several years. in her case, it had to do with
her blood levels of certain minerals. memory is an uncertain
and largely mysterious thing, even now, because we don't yet know exactly how the brain works. it seems doubtful to
me that we ever will. ~paul

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

Yes, that is one of the great truths. And if we can't even understand our own minds, it seems even more doubtful that we'll understand much about cosmos. It's wonderful, as long as I don't let it scare me.

[bitterlawngnome.livejournal.com]

Hm, I consider the moments when I forget who where and what I am, high points, perhaps THE high points, of my life.

Maybe if I had to live with it on a chronic basis, maybe if it came unbidden, I'd feel differently about it.

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

Yes, to live purely in the moment is most gratifying in the midst of pleasure or discovery. But to lose all context was terrifying, especially when I was experiencing pain and loss of faculties.

The people interviewed in this article could not drive, read, watch movies or work because they couldn't remember anything from one moment to the next.

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

Correction: they could read, but could not appreciate books.

[pagerbear.livejournal.com]

I often forget names, just like my dad and my grandmother. An acquaintance once told me names and labels are stored in a specific part of the brain, separate from other memories. I wonder if there's anything I can do to keep that from getting worse.

I always look forward to your posts--beautifully written and profound, and accompanied by beautiful photographs.

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

The article talked about the different areas of the brain and kinds of memories. I found that pretty interesting.

As a journalist I learned to remember names better by using them a lot, especially when I first met people. So in our initial conversation I would try to use their names several times. That way the name became attached to the face. It takes a lot of concentration.

[handlebear.livejournal.com]

Trauma to the frontal area of the brain often causes this effect. I had a horrible time with my short term memory after the surgery in 1987. I still have some lingering effects especially with strings of numbers.

I wish you well my friend.

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

Thanks Cameron. I've never had any head trauma, in fact I was an extremely cautious child. The worst injury I ever received was a fractured radius in a fall from a horse. The problem seems to be related to depression, which I experienced almost continuously from age eight but wasn't diagnosed until age 30.

Journaling sometimes triggers episodes of unusual recall. But I still struggle to remember important things from day to day. I notice it particularly with conversations. Writing them down soon afterwards sometimes helps, but I seldom have the presence of mind to do so. I still hope that a therapist might be able to suggest other techniques.