I've Lost My Memory
It started about three weeks ago, or at least I think it did based on the pages in this diary I found. Apparently my mother called to tell me that my uncle Ken had died. I asked who that was and swore I hadn't met any uncle by that name. In the moment, I had chalked it up to be that maybe I just didn’t know him well. My mother’s protests about the month I had spent at his house didn't aid in me recalling him. It was when she was hospitalized and my father was deployed overseas. As odd as it seemed, I was able to convince myself that she might have mixed up the time frames or relative. I could have stayed with a few people during that time if anything. I did remember her being in the hospital and me staying somewhere away from home, but not with somebody named Ken.
My mother thought I was messing with her and made it a point to tell me those kinds of jokes aren't funny, especially when someone has passed. No amount of reassurance that I was serious would convince her otherwise. By the end of the call her tone had changed from angry to slightly worried as we hung up. Her worry was about my insistence that I didn't know an uncle named Ken. Ironically my worry was for her mental wellbeing, after her swearing on the Bible that he was even my favorite uncle.
Forgetting something like that was somewhat jarring but didn't bother me too much. It picked at the back of my mind but ultimately failed to stand out amongst all the day-to-day. I mean why would a memory being wrong from when I was five or six years old really matter?
Well as I sit here now and find myself piecing my life together from broken-up scribbles, it seems like it mattered quite a bit after all.
Things went on like normal for the next day or so until I wound up in a heap of trouble with my girlfriend. According to the diary her name was Sarah and we'd dated for about two and a half years. Recently we had made the decision to move in together. Last year I apparently did everything perfect, a real storybook birthday. This year I forgot what day it was even on, I don't mean it slipped my mind or I lost track of time. I, for the life of me, couldn't remember the day or hell even the month she was born in. That was until I got home and asked if she wanted to order in that night.
This time it shook me up and I couldn't make any excuses. Reading back, this was the first relationship I really took seriously. I genuinely liked her and made it a point to make a big deal of the special things and days. I wouldn't just forget her birthday, but that didn't change the fact that I couldn't find it in my memory, despite my best efforts.
As I think back, I don't believe there was a way to stop the slippage of my past, but damn I wish I had tried. Maybe there was something I could have done, if I had noticed early enough.
I told her about the conversation with my mother and swore it must have been stress or something like that chewing at my brain. She wasn't willing to hear anything out though, my shambled-together feeble attempt to make her birthday special didn't help any either. The two instances wore on my psyche throughout the week. I continued on with my day-to-day, but carried that weight of not knowing what else might have slipped away from me.
The distraction of life played nicely into my admittedly willing dismissal of it all. I was more than happy to convince myself nothing was wrong. It worked fine enough, aside from the scoffs and side eyes from Sarah, her usual bright smiles replaced by a look of frustrated concern. Nonetheless I was able to keep up the normal patterns. Well until it slipped again and really screwed things up.
I was in the middle of my daily commute when I realized I didn’t know where I was driving to. I knew I worked as a facilities manager somewhere, but couldn't place where. I drove around aimlessly for several hours trying to recall until I got a phone call. The general manager of the property I worked at had called to ask if I was coming in. Their lighthearted response only worsened my internalized panic from having to ask where the building was.
“Haha okay, is that a no or are you just running late?”
A painful conversation led to me being cleared for some extended PTO. Over the next few days I lost the name of the company I worked for. They apparently tried to call and text me, but I must have thought it was spam and ignored it – I was trying too hard to piece together the notes left in this diary. The lack of responses from me eventually forced them into placing me on leave. My return to work pending a written clearance from a doctor, according to an email I found.
It took me nearly a full week to navigate the referral needed to see a neurologist. That time robbed me of more and more as each day passed. Large gaps and blank spaces occupied every conversation I had and trip into the past I tried to take. By the time Sarah begrudgingly agreed to drive me to my appointment, just trying to communicate was exhausting. The trip was filled with frustrated disbelief that I couldn't recall her mother's or father's names. Her frustration was replaced by bewildered confusion when I couldn't even remember my own birthday for the paperwork at the office.
The doctor didn't seem to take things too seriously, shallow nods and an unenthusiastic facial expression told me as much. My testimony mixed with my girlfriend's frustrated recounting, and a series of inconclusive imaging did nothing to help things either. I jotted down some of the questions he asked but it's all nonsense to me now. Things like my mother’s name, where I was born, who's the current president, etc. I struggled to answer the simple questions, each answer was met with an unimpressed look from the doctor. The more questions that were asked, the more nervous I became.
By the end, it was chalked up to stress and lack of sleep. The doctor clearly assumed I'd made up the symptoms to excuse my forgetting of Sarah's birthday. He didn't outright say so, but hinted I was trying to mend the rocky situation my relationship found itself in. Even with his speculation, blood work was sent off and I was told they would call with the results. They stressed that I should watch for their call, in case this did turn out to be something more severe.
Well over the next few days I didn't answer a single call and even forgot my girlfriend's name. That was seemingly the final straw, as she decided to move out. Only after the screaming match and her clambering for essentials, did I find the diary to be able to piece everything back together in my head. She had already left and was long gone once I got caught up with the current date. By the time I grabbed my phone to call her and apologize, the memories of our relationship had slipped from my mind's grasp. I'd forgotten why I had my phone and just returned to cleaning up the unkempt apartment.
The next day, or maybe a few days later, I received a strange voicemail. The random caller seemed to know who I was and stated there were test results ready, again only clarified by reading the diary. I forgot I went to the doctor, forgot that I was forgetting things even. The voicemail implied that everything was normal but to call with any questions if needed. How was I supposed to call and ask questions when everything was a question?
It's been three days since that last diary entry, at least I think it has been based off of the date on this computer screen. I can't remember anything anymore, the scribbled notes on this page are the only solace of stability left for me. The phone's voicemail is full of unknown voices and worried messages that are meaningless to me. They all seem scared and distressed enough though, that I hope they get in touch with the right person soon. The ID in the wallet I found near the door says my name might be James Cunniff, that I'm 28 years old and live in Las Vegas. I keep going back to the computer, to post about the stuff in the diary but see this was already posted every time I do.