When I try to place an event in the calendar within the stretch of time that goes from the bleeding of my first hemangioma to the present, all the months and years are jumbled up in my brain. I have (what I think it is) quite a distinct memory of it: I can name and picture the person involved and recall our exchange; I can tell if the days were sunny or cold; and I know if it took place in the hospital, the facility, or a doctor’s office. But I don’t know if it happened before or after my first operation, and I can’t mention the year. I remember eating in our backyard with friends who’d come visit and feeling the warmth of the morning, but can’t tell if it was summer or fall.
It’s as if I had a huge disorder of memories impossible to reorganize; as if events were heaped up like a tangled skein and I were unable to untangle it. I don’t know when I went to my internist and saw the neurologist; when I was waiting to be operated, and when the doctors took out the stitches. I asked questions and received a lot of useful information, and yet I still need answers.
I feel urged to place events in every box in the calendar, and this urge unsettles me – I won’t feel good until all these boxes are filled. It reminds me of my youth, when my unsuccessful attempt to untangle a necklace that had been stored deep down a jewelry box would frustrate and anger me, and I would throw the necklace on the floor and walk away. But nowadays I’m more stubborn and patient; if I can reorganize events in the calendar and fill all the boxes, I’ll restore my memory. And if my memory is restored, I’ll get my life back.
It’s as if I had a huge disorder of memories impossible to reorganize; as if events were heaped up like a tangled skein and I were unable to untangle it. I don’t know when I went to my internist and saw the neurologist; when I was waiting to be operated, and when the doctors took out the stitches. I asked questions and received a lot of useful information, and yet I still need answers.
I feel urged to place events in every box in the calendar, and this urge unsettles me – I won’t feel good until all these boxes are filled. It reminds me of my youth, when my unsuccessful attempt to untangle a necklace that had been stored deep down a jewelry box would frustrate and anger me, and I would throw the necklace on the floor and walk away. But nowadays I’m more stubborn and patient; if I can reorganize events in the calendar and fill all the boxes, I’ll restore my memory. And if my memory is restored, I’ll get my life back.
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