On Nightline, they interviewed a man who had slipped in the bathroom and hit his head in such a way that he lost ALL his memories. All 46 years. I can't even imagine that. When he woke up in the hospital, he noticed a beautiful lady standing next to him and figured she knew him because she kept hugging and kissing him. When he was brought home, he walked into a closet and because the clothes appeared to fit him, he figured he must live there.
For the past year, his wife has gone through their photo albums and video recordings with him, explaining each person and each event. Nothing has triggered a memory spark, not even his wedding video or pictures of his child. How sad! He is reliving his life through someone else's eyes. I wonder if he'll ever be able to grasp who he used to be.
On a good note--if anything relating to losing your entire life can be good--he is experiencing incredible days of discovery and adventure. He's basically a one year old in an adult body, needing holidays, food, and animals explained to him. To his family, he brings a new sense of wonder to everyday things. But at a great cost.
What was most heartbreaking to me was when they interviewed his wife and she said, "We didn't just lose all his memories. We lost all our memories together, everything our marriage was built on. I have no one to share those experiences with anymore."
Maybe this doesn't strike a cord with everyone, but to me, this--and all memory-loss illnesses--is one of the most frightening and miserable things that could happen to a person. Being a writer, I rely on my memory, my experiences and observations. I treasure them. Without them, I am nothing, I can do nothing, I can create nothing. And being helpless in my own body terrifies me. That's why the movie Atonement resonates so deeply with me. I must write to remember, and I must remember to write.
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