The Man Who Forgot His Wife Read Free Page A

at examining my results bore no relation whatsoever to any progress or understanding of what had happened to me.
    ‘Oooh, that’s interesting!’
    ‘What? What?’ I asked optimistically.
    ‘Both hippocampi are normal, the volumes of both entorhinal cortices and temporal lobes are normal.’
    ‘Right – so does that explain anything?’
    ‘Nothing at all. That’s what’s so interesting! No bilateral damage to the medial temporal lobe or diencephalic midline. It would appear that your extra-personal memories have been consolidated in the neocortex independently of the medial temporal lobe.’
    ‘Is that good or bad?’
    ‘Well, there’s no discernible logic or pattern to any of it. But then that’s typical of brain scans as a whole – such a mystery!’ she said, clapping her hands together in delight. ‘That’s what makes it so utterly compelling!’
    I felt my body slumping back in the chair again.
    ‘And as for how memories are processed and stored – that is one of the most baffling areas of all. It’s such a thrilling subject to be researching!’
    ‘Hmmm, great …’ I nodded blankly. It was like having open-heart surgery and hearing, ‘Wow – what’s this big muscle in here pumping away of its own accord?!’
    It was quite a few days before Dr Lewington had reached her conclusion and came and sat by my bed to explain what she thought had happened. She talked so quietly that Bernard was forced to turn off his radio on the other side of the curtain.
    ‘From cases similar to your own in the United States and elsewhere, it seems that you have experienced a “psychogenic fugue”; literally a “flight” from your previous life, possibly triggered by extreme stress or an inability to cope with whatever was happening.’
    ‘A fugue?’
    ‘Yes, this only happens to a handful of people every year in the whole world, though no two cases seem to be identical. The loss of personal items such as your phone or wallet was probably deliberate on your part as you slipped into the “fugue state”, and it’s usual to have no recall of consciously abandoning all traces of your former life. Clearly you have not forgotten everything or you would be like a newborn infant, but typically with “retrograde amnesia”, the patient would know, say, who Princess Diana was, but might not know that she had died.’
    ‘Paris. 1998,’ I said, showing off a little.
    ‘1997!’ came Bernard’s voice from the other side of the curtain.
    ‘Your recall of these
extra-personal
memories suggests you stand a good chance of getting your
personal
memories back and returning to your old life.’
    ‘But when exactly?’
    ‘Thirty-first of August,’ said Bernard. ‘She was pronounced dead around four a.m.’
    Dr Lewington was reluctant to make any promises, and had to concede that there was no guarantee that I would definitely recover. And so I was left alone with this frightening thought, staring at the green curtains around my bed, wondering if I would ever make contact with my previous life again.
    ‘Maybe you’re a serial killer?’ said Bernard’s nonchalant voice.
    ‘Sorry, Bernard, are you talking to me?’
    ‘Well, she said it might have been caused by a need to shut out your past; perhaps it’s because you couldn’t stand the torment of being the undetected murderer of homeless vagrants whose bodies are stored in freezer cabinets in your basement.’
    ‘That’s a lovely thought. Thank you.’
    ‘It’s possible. Or perhaps you’re a terrorist.’
    ‘Well, let’s hope not, eh?’
    ‘A drug dealer. On the run from the Chinese triads!’
    I resolved to say nothing in the hope that the speculation might peter out.
    ‘A pimp … A compulsive arsonist …’
    There were some headphones somewhere. I looked under my bedside table for a way to block out the list of appalling crimes that might have precipitated my breakdown, most notably ‘paedophile’, ‘vivisectionist’ and ‘banker’.
    I dismissed