Historia: Forgetting Myself

I opened my eyes. Slowly, strange faces came into focus. There were bright lights everywhere. Someone was holding my hand. I pulled my hand away.

There were doctors and nurses. They helped me get into a wheelchair. The man who looked like a surgeon pushed me out of the room. There were other people following us. I must have asked what was happening.

“She’s disoriented,” said the surgeon. “She’ll feel better in a few minutes.”

After a few hours, my parents realised something was wrong. I couldn’t remember them. I couldn’t remember anything from before the brain surgery. It was terrifying.

I was in a strange house with strange people. They said they were my parents. I didn’t recognise them, but I couldn’t remember what my parents looked like, either.

They showed me my bedroom. There was a woolly jumper hanging over a chair. “This was a present for your fourteenth birthday,” said my mum. “Do you remember asking for it? It was only a few weeks ago.” I picked it up. It was a hideous orange and it felt scratchy. I threw it on the bed.

“I’ll make your favourite meal tonight,” said my dad. “Maybe that will help.”

In the kitchen, I watched him put a pink blob into a metal box. After thirty minutes, it had turned brown. I wanted to smell it, so I opened the glass door. The heat rushed over my face and I shrieked. I didn’t know it was an oven, and I didn’t remember that ovens were hot.

The doctors told me that I had been very unlucky. It’s common for people to struggle with some memories after brain surgery. But losing all your memories – everything – is extremely rare.

My parents showed me photos. They told stories and laughed and smiled, but I felt nothing. After a few weeks, I asked them to stop. I hated feeling nothing.

I had to start my life again. Over the next few years, I built a new relationship with my parents, made new friends and developed new interests. I never remembered anything.

I didn’t like the same things, or even the same people, as before. I was a different person.

The doctors continued to monitor my health. The tumour wasn’t growing back. I could carry on with my life. I finished school, I started work, and every year I raised money for brain tumour research.

I met William while fundraising. His brother had died of a brain tumour four years ago. I was unlucky, but his brother’s luck was worse. In a way, I died too. But I was lucky enough to get a second chance. I was lucky enough to meet William. We got engaged two years ago.

But here I am again, back in the operating theatre with the bright lights, seven years later. The tumour has started growing again.

“Of course, the risk is the same as before,” the surgeon had said.

“I could forget everything… again.”

“I’m sorry, it’s possible. But if we don’t remove it completely, now —”

“My funeral might be only a few years after my marriage.”

The surgeon nodded slowly. “Yes.”

William and I gathered hundreds of photos of our lives. We both wrote letters to each other. I know that it didn’t help me before. But all those experiences, all the things I felt… I can’t let them just disappear.

“Make me remember you, ok?” I said to William the night before the surgery. “Don’t give up, even if I say I don’t like you anymore. Promise me!”

I didn’t stop looking at him as they gave me the anaesthetic. I wanted his face to be the last thing I saw. He was trying so hard to smile.

I opened my eyes. Slowly, strange faces came into focus. There were bright lights everywhere. I felt confused.

The people were standing very still. They were like statues, watching me. It was terrifying. They didn’t say anything. Were they even breathing?

“Why are you looking at me like that, William?” I said.