“That’s good. You have to eat. I’ll be back in an hour to fetch the tray.” She left and I looked at the plate of food again. It was covered in a round plastic lid and condensation had formed on it, like it always does . . .
Wait. . . how did I know that? I lifted the lid and some water droplets fell onto the food and a smell hit me. I knew this smell! And it made me want to be sick. I pushed the plate even further away and tilted my body on the bed so I didn’t have to look at it.
I think I must have slept. Because when I opened my eyes again, it was dark. Three trays of untouched food now sat on my table.How many meals had I missed?I startled when I heard a noise and saw Dr. Cohen sitting in a chair.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to give you a fright,” she said. “I was just finishing my rounds and thought I would check on you. How are you feeling?”
“I’m feeling . . . uh . . .” I paused. The words weren’t coming to me and, once again, I tried to reach into my mind to find something that I already knew wasn’t there.
“Try not to think too hard about it,” she urged. “Just say the first thing that comes to you. There’s no wrong or right answer.”
“Scared,” I said, without even checking myself.
“What are you scared of?”
“Everything.”
“Can you elaborate?” she asked. For someone who was telling me not to think too hard, she was really making me think.
That blurry, swirly, dark feeling was creeping up on me again. Tapping inside me. Reminding me it was still there. “What if I don’t find out who I am? What if I do, and I don’t remember? What if there are people out there looking for me, and I don’t remember them, or . . .” I swallowed. The spit got stuck in my throat, as if it were a large rock. A thought formed,the most terrible thought, the rock seemed to grow. “What if no one is looking for me?”
“I’m sure these concerns feel very real to you,” she offered up, “but trust me, they are all very unrealistic. The policewillfind out who you are, they always do. Your memory will come back, maybe not all at once. But in small bursts. I’m sure you must already be experiencing some feelings of familiarity, even if you can’t quite place them?”
I nodded. She was right about that.The hospital food. . .
“That’s a positive sign. And to waylay your other fear, it’s very unlikely that no one is looking for you. I’m sure many people are looking for you, and chances are, they’ll probably find you before the police figure out who you are.”
“How do you know?”
“Believe it or not, this is more common than you’d think. We’ve had a few patients like you come in with no memory.”
“And has everyone’s memory come back?”
“Yes. Some people still can’t remember the traumatic event, and some can’t remember the days leading up to it, some have a few gaps here and there, but all of them regained most, if not all, of their memories. But the important thing is to try not to let this overwhelm you. Don’t obsess about not remembering. The more stress you put on yourself, the less likely you are to remember. These things usually resolve themselves naturally, especially because you present with no brain injury. There is no physical reason for you to have forgotten who you are . . .” She paused and looked down at the paper she was holding.
“What?” I leaned towards her, sensing something in her tone.
“Usually, when someone without any physical brain damage presents with amnesia, the reasons for forgetting are more psychological. We call this post-traumatic amnesia.”
“What are you saying? That I’m mentally ill?” I asked.
“No. Of course not. But I’m wondering if there’s something about your life, your past, or about the accident—perhaps it was just too traumatic to process—that is causing your amnesia.”
I glared at her. Her statement had offended me in some way I didn’t quite understand. “How would I know that if I can’t remember?” I snapped at her, and then looked out of the window.
“And I see that you’re also refusing your food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Well, you are physically hungry, but all the anxiety you’re experiencing is probably making it hard to eat. And you need to eat.” I heard her stand up. “I’ll prescribe something to help you relax and I’ll be back here to chat in the morning, if that’s okay?”
I looked at her for a while. I felt bad for snapping; she was just trying to be nice to me. I kept doing this—lashing out—and I didn’t know why. Something inside me was making me feel a level of anger I couldn’t account for. “Yes, thank you.”
“Great, see you in the morning.” She left my room and closed the door behind her. Everyone seemed to walk out of my room. No one really walked in, unless they needed to get something from me, like a blood-pressure reading. It felt like everyone was always leaving me. And then the fear that I’d been feeling moments ago was replaced by something else.
Sadness.
Big, black and all-consuming.
