Neal Cresswell for the globe and mail
Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
I completely lost my mind. Literally.
The cat woke me up at 4 a.m. and I went to my computer to do some work. At 6 a.m. I went back to bed, and I woke again at 8. After that my personal recollection ends – I didn't remember a thing after 8 o'clock.
My wife, Carroll, recalls that I came upstairs, and that I asked her three questions: "What day is it?"; "What time is it?" and "Why are those books on the library floor?"
About a minute later, I asked the same three questions. All the same answers: Sunday, 8 o'clock, and "We're sorting books."
And then I asked them again and again and again, every minute or so – each time as if they were fresh questions. Carroll reminded me repeatedly that we had been sorting books for quite some time, and that my daughter Ingrid had been here to help.
"No she hasn't," I said. "Yes, she has."
Carroll's mind immediately jumped to "stroke." She looked for the classic signs: Could I walk okay? Were my pupils the same size? Yes to those. Was part of my face drooping? Did I have a headache? Was I dizzy? No to those. Then the same three questions over and over again.
I remembered Carroll's name and that she was my wife. I remembered the names of my three children, Mark, Ingrid and Michelle. But when Carroll asked if I remembered Ingrid helping us sort books I said: "Ingrid hasn't been here."
"Yes she has."
"No she hasn't."
Carroll took me to my computer and turned it on, and we had a bizarre conversation:
"What did you just do?" I asked.
"I just turned it on."
"What does that mean?"
"Look, the screen is on."
"What's a screen?"
"Here, this is your e-mail."
"What is e-mail?"
"Here is an e-mail from your brother."
"My brother?"
"Here is another from your client, the one you're designing a book for."
"What client? What book?"
And more. "Who put all that stuff on my desk? A minute ago there was nothing there."
"That's all your stuff, your desk diary, your pens, your papers."
"Those aren't mine."
My wife was alarmed enough to call a cab to take me to emergency. Curiously, I remembered to get the keys and lock the front door. But when we arrived at emergency I couldn't remember I'd been there before when I had complications after surgery on an abdominal aortic aneurysm.
"What surgery?" I asked. "I've never been here before."
"Yes you have."
"Why are you here?" a nice doctor asked.
I didn't know.
The immediate concern of medical professionals in this type of situation is the possibility of a stroke or a transient ischemic attack (TIA), frequently referred to as a mini-stroke.
The doctor went through the diagnostic routine: Touch your nose with your index finger, then touch my finger; as I move my finger, continue to alternate nose to finger. Fine. Do you have a headache? No. Let me examine your eyes. They look fine. Raise both arms to the ceiling. Any pain? No. That's fine. Can you walk? Yes.
Then: "Why are you here?"
"I have no idea."
"What work do you do?"
"I don't know."
A nurse came in and drew some blood. They took me for a CT scan. The doctor came back in. The tests were fine – no stroke, no TIA, no concussion. So what was it?
Well, apparently there is something called Transient Global Amnesia. It's a temporary loss of memory, and the repetitive questions are typical of it. The cause isn't known, the doctor explained, but he knew that it was likely to go within a day and that I'd remember my life again, but never this bit of time.
Diagnosis is difficult, he said, unless there is another person to witness it and hear the repeated questions.
The doctor was chatting with me again. What kind of work do you do? Very slowly, I started to remember things – not all at once, but patchy. I'm a graphic designer. What sorts of things do I design? Wait, I wasn't sure. I turned to Carroll: "Do I design brochures?" Yes. "What else do I design?" Logos. Banners. Posters. Invitations. Books. All those things.
Slowly, the picture started to fill in. On our way home on the streetcar, Carroll and I chatted more or less as usual. She had to take two days off work to keep an eye on me.
In the end, there is very little I have ever forgotten, other than where my various pairs of glasses are. But now there's a five-hour gap that is a complete mystery to me.
Willem Hart and Carroll Guen Hart live in Toronto.