Brain Damage, Amnesia and Me
My name is Michelle, she/her. I’m a writer. And amnesiac. In 2019, my gallbladder ruptured. The rupture caused a severe infection that cut off oxygen to my brain, leading to permanent brain damage.
Retrograde amnesia is a form of memory loss characterized by an inability to recall events that occurred before the onset of amnesia.
Anterograde amnesia is a type of memory loss that prevents the formation of new memories.
After surgery, living alone was impossible, but soon after, wonderful friends welcomed me into their homes.
During the first weeks after surgery, every morning brought the same paralyzing confusion. I had no idea where I was, even in houses I'd visited dozens of times. People quietly escorted me to the bathroom so I wouldn't disappear elsewhere in their home.
After losing my driver's license, which happened soon after the onset of my amnesia, I had to rely on others for meals. Formidable tasks, such as walking to a store, became futile, overwhelming battles.
As a writer, I found the diaries I'd kept since childhood. Reading entries—like discovering my three published romance novels—helped me piece together my life, even as it often felt like reading stories written by a stranger.
In the early months of recovery, I couldn't live on my own anymore. My driver's lisence was taken away.
Every morning, I woke up sad, scared, and confused, not knowing where I was. But as days passed, I started waking up to find sweet, handwritten notes that announced where I was. It wasn't uncommon for me to wake up many times a day.
The rare times I managed to sleep during those first months after surgery created a world in which the differences in my existence made me feel as if I were a book that had been instantly deleted. And now I was rewriting my stories in the absolute wrong order.
(Which is how my memoir about my existence as an amnesiac is being written.)
My friends patiently helped me navigate their homes, guiding me to the bathroom, kitchen, and backyard to prevent me from becoming lost.
After losing my driver's license soon after surgery, I relied on others for essentials like food. My weight dropped to 92 pounds, and I was deeply grateful for their help during this difficult time.
Through those diaries, I tried to assemble the pieces of my life, learning who I was page by page.
As I pieced together my history, I found stories about risky choices, profound loneliness, and honest thoughts about my mom, who died after brain surgery when I was 17.
Now, years after the surgery and the onset of amnesia, I'm still learning about myself every day.
My writings revealed moments of pain and loneliness, but also my vulnerability and love for my mom, who died after surgery to remove her brain tumor when I was 17. Her influence still guides me.
Some memories are slowly returning, but severe retrograde and antegrade amnesia still shape my daily life.
Here, I share my writing about what it's like to live with amnesia.
I'm glad you're here. Welcome to my world. Some days I remember, some days I forget, but I always keep writing.
And knitting.
And attempting to play my ukulele, which is a frequently unwon battle.
Nothing Goes Away
An object in time travels if and only if the difference between its departure and arrival times, as measured in the surrounding world, does not equal the duration of the journey it undergoes. In this place, the soft grey shawl and my knitting project are on my Anthropologie quilted bed.
Now, I’m an instant photograph—an undeveloped Polaroid, seeking light to reveal myself. I’m composed of layers of amnesia—retrograde, antegrade. Pieces of who I am or once was diffuse into the painstaking, slow development of images. I’m not really an amnesiac. I, Michelle Kathleen O’Kane, am a Time Traveler. An object.
An object in time travels if and only if the difference between its departure and arrival times, as measured in the surrounding world, does not equal the duration of the journey it undergoes. In this place, the soft grey shawl and my knitting project are on my Anthropologie quilted bed. The book on my nightstand is The Echo of Old Books. My notebook, with its pinkish pages, waits patiently for more words—words I will emote before talking incessantly about myself and everything that used to be my life.
There was a time when everything felt possible. I wrote stories I believed in, and imagined new places and the hope of falling in love.
Memories of sharing meals with people I loved. Mimosas at brunch. Cosmopolitans before dinner. Vintage chardonnay with dinner. I wake up while driving in various cars, and I’m always the driver. Frequently, I’m on the unpopulated northern lanes of Highway 280, approaching the 92 exchange. Aware. While I’m driving, I surround myself with the color-changing hills. I’m humming along with Elvis Costello. Every day I write the book.
Now I drive west, heading toward Half Moon Bay. Always in my own car. Today it’s my blue Ford Ranger, the one I bought after my mother died. I was seventeen. She had only been gone a few months.
I pass the Half Moon Bay Nursery on the north side of 92. I drive through the edges of my town. My ocean, the salt in the air, blue sky, and the sea. White clouds stretch across the sun and water. I realize now how strange I have become.
I haven’t watched a movie with anyone in more than five years. I haven’t laughed with someone in just as long. Sometimes, something on TV or the radio pulls a laugh out of me—a quick, sharp sound. It surprises me. I hardly recognize it as my own.
Time is on my side. Gravity nudges me across cool, damp grass. Behind me, a 5’4” wide trail marks where I’ve rolled down the hill.
I’m jealous of many of the things I see on TV. And Instagram. Landscapes and cities and people at tables with white espresso cups.
“You don’t look back along time but down through it, like water. Sometimes this comes to the surface, sometimes that, sometimes nothing. Nothing goes away.”—Margaret Atwood
ABOUT TIME
Things, like time, are war. Games. War games. Time—is of the essence. I grasp the heavy rifle in my hands. I blast the abyss with bullets of memories, leaving sparkling lights that, slow, dim into the darkness. Often I wish I was still younger. My terrain in my head, then, was a much smaller area to blow up.
Here is what is this about. I don't know what I'm about. Nor does anybody else.
Things, like time, are war. Games. War games. Time—is of the essence. I grasp the heavy rifle in my hands. I blast the abyss with bullets of memories, leaving sparkling lights that, slow, dim into the darkness. Often I wish I was still younger. My terrain in my head, then, was a much smaller area to blow up.
Time after time—we do not have the luxury of forgetting that time is of the essence. The second hand unwinds. The drum beats out of time.
Days and time whirl us up in its violent tornado. Lives living a billion schedules, pattering around the world in an infinitely interactive lacy web.
Somewhere. Some wheres. Somethings. Things. My bed. My paintings. My Le Creuset Enameled Cast Iron Dutch Oven. Blue Azure.
Now. I’m a writer. With published books. My published books are romance novels. Now I write my memories. My memories are rarely the same story accurately remembered. So. So I’m forcing myself to scrawl each version of the stories I remember. Then I just try to fit all the pieces together in a way that—fits. Or—doesn’t.
I love pretty stories. I love writing. Now I write. Now I’m in the middle of a tornado. Throwing the letters & words & exclamation points!!!
My brain is inside my skull. I know this is true because I’ve seen it. Seen images of this. In the X-ray I see see the tornado, violently rotating within a column of air. This whirlwind slices out pieces of what’s left in my mind. I see it scattered over the people I've known all my life or, seemingly, all my life.
A tornado is a violently rotating column of air. It is in contact with both the surface of the Earth and a cumulonimbus cloud. In rare cases, it connects with the base of a cumulus cloud. It is often referred to as a twister, whirlwind or cyclone.
I’m not sure why. I'm pretty sure I don't want to know why. Even if I knew why, I wouldn't remember anyway. Time. Flies. It's just a game I've never successfully searched through.
My memories. Carnival games. Loud. Tacky. Frustrating. Exhausting. But. What isn’t?
About Time
“Time is a circus, always packing up and moving away." - Ben Hecht
Here is what is this about. I don't know what I'm about. Nor does anybody else.
Things, such as time, are war. Games. War games. Time—is of the essence. I grasp the heavy rifle in my hands. I blast the dry abyss with bullets of memories, leaving sparkling lights that, slowly, dim into the darkness. Frequently I wish I was still younger. The terrain in my head, then, was a much smaller area to blow up.
Time after time—we do not have the luxury of forgetting that time is of the essence. The second hand unwinds. I got a suitcase of memories, I almost left behind.
Days and time whirl us up in its violent tornado. Lives living a billion schedules, pattering around the world in an infinitely interactive lacy web.
Somewhere. Some wheres. Somethings. Things. My bed. My paintings. My Le Creuset Enameled Cast Iron Dutch Oven. Blue Azure.
Now. I’m a writer. With published books. My published books are romance novels. Now I write my memories. My memories are rarely the same story accurately remembered. So. So I’m forcing myself to scrawl each version of the stories I remember. Then I just try to fit all the pieces together in a way that—fits. Or—doesn’t.
I love pretty stories. I love writing. Now I write. Now I’m in the middle of a tornado. Throwing the letters & words & exclamation points!!!
My brain is inside my skull. I know this is true because I’ve seen it.
I’m not sure why, but I'm pretty sure I don't want to know why, and even if I knew why, I wouldn't remember anyway. Time. Flies.
Inside my brain, carnival loudly attack me with their fake noises. Tacky. Frustrating. Exhausting. But. What isn’t?