How I Rescued My Brain Read Free

responds kindly: ‘It won’t hurt,’ she says. ‘Grip as tightly as you can.’
    It seems that in no time at all, daylight fills up the windowpanes. I realise I’m hungry. A woman pushing a multi-level trolley brings me a tray with a small packet of cereal, stiff cold toast, and tea. It’s like aeroplane food, as if I’m going on a holiday. I enjoy the breakfast, even though it’s not what I’d have at home.
    This morning is different from yesterday. It feels as if I’ve woken from a dream. I’m sure now that I’m in hospital, and that something really has happened to me. I remember more clearly the night before I came in. I’d woken with a headache, walked to the kitchen, taken a Panadol, and gone back to bed. That’s the last memory I have before being here.
    A nurse comes in and tells me that the specialist — the serious doctor — will be doing his rounds this morning and will discuss the test results with me. I am to stay in my room until he comes. Afterwards, I can walk around. I ask for a headache tablet.
    I’m looking forward to seeing the specialist: I’m keen to know what the results say, what he thinks has happened to me. In the meantime, I enjoy getting showered, dressed, and organised. The man next to me asks what I’m in for and I tell him that I’ve lost my memory for some reason. I chat a little with the others and then look out the window. We are up high, and I peer down on oblong houses with broccoli trees in their backyards.
    The phone beside my bed rings, interrupting my reverie. It’s my psychiatrist, Doctor Banister. Anna has called him, he says. ‘What’s happened?’ he asks.
    I tell him that I can’t recall most of yesterday.
    â€˜What do you think brought this on?’
    I remember I’d had a huge panic attack the day before I came to hospital, after a meeting with our barrister. He’d told me that Anna and I were going to be sued.
    Doctor Banister asks me what tests have been done. I mention the CT scan and the blood tests, and say I’m waiting to discuss the results with the specialist.
    â€˜You may have had a psychogenic fugue: an episode of amnesia. But we’ll need to wait and see what the results reveal. I’ll try and come in to see you. If it’s a fugue, you could come and stay at a clinic I work for, Seaview Psychiatric Clinic, for a longer rest. I can discuss this with your doctor.’
    â€˜Okay,’ I say. That does sound good.
    Not long afterwards, the specialist comes in and stands by my bed, with a young female doctor this time. He looks fresh but more rushed than yesterday. He asks me how I’m feeling.
    â€˜I’m woolly in the head, as if I’m not sure I’m really here,’ I say. ‘I’ve got a mild headache, too.’
    He says that the blood tests came back negative, my heart is fine, and the CT scan did not show any problems with my brain. He turns to his colleague: ‘It’s not TGA.’ He doesn’t realise that I know what this is: transient global amnesia. A brief episode of memory loss, cause unknown. I’m disappointed; it would be an interesting clinical experience to have. Thinking it might be useful, I tell him that my psychiatrist rang and thought I might have had a psychogenic fugue. He looks relieved to hear this suggestion. I mention Doctor Banister’s idea that I could go to the Seaview clinic. The specialist says he will request a review by a hospital psychiatrist in case Doctor Banister doesn’t get in to see me. He’ll order some new blood tests and a urine test. He wants me to stay for another night so that they can monitor me, and to give him time to talk with Doctor Banister. After this, if he’s satisfied, I can go to Seaview, as long as Anna takes me.
    EVERYONE HAS GONE. It’s a relief; without people asking me things, I slip back into a river of peace. But I try to