Disaster Girl. Ces’t moi. If I recall correctly, I earned that nickname right after I shattered my tibfib during roller derby practice. Tahoe Derby Dames! Anyway.
So. On September 27th I was ordered to go the ER because I was anemic. This was a strange order because I’ve spent a lot of time with phlebotomists because I have hemochromatosis.
So I went. Had a bunch of scans. Gave blood, got blood. Went back home. And then, 6 hours later, the Parkland ER called me and ordered me to come back because of ACUTE PANCREATITIS. Again.
So then I went back to the Parkland ER. Got admitted. Was not allowed to leave the hospital for 8 more days. Etcetera.
As is common with lengthy hospital stays, I was attached to the bed through my hardworking IV pole. And a built-in bed alarm. Then, on my last couple of days, I was released from the alarm. YAY! I was able to, with IV pole in tow, go the bathroom all by myself.
Of course, on my way back from the bathroom, a wave of vertigo washed over me and I fell down. I crashed to the gross hospital floor—and brought the IV pole with me—yes, the heavy-as-rocks pole landed on me. (Yes, that is what she said.) It was a pretty nasty fall, which I know because of the gigantic bruise on my upper thigh.
Anyhoo. Just another day in Feisty Falls Down world.
A person with light skin and a blue floral tattoo rests their crossed arms on a hospital bed rail, perhaps after frequent medical visits. The scene suggests a medical setting, with small bruises or marks visible on the person’s skin.
I’ve been thinking about when we delivered Flynn. I can still see the carpark from the hospital window. I remember the 4Runner you had when we met at NASA. Was it blue or yellow? I bought a yellow one later. It was a piece of shit, remember?
Your old blue duplex was just a few blocks from Kim’s Vietnamese Restaurant. Your blue BMW motorcycle and black helmet sat in the small garage. Denise and Tom lived in Milpitas. Lynn and Larry had a green lawn with flowers across from the flute lady, where I took flute lessons.
Do you remember when we saw that flute teacher on our flight from Dublin to London? In London, we stayed on the second floor of a big B&B. We went downstairs for breakfast, and there was just one other person in the room. When we left, the hallway to the kitchen was on the left, and the large brown door to the street was on the right. We stepped outside, turned left, and walked down the road. It was my first time out of the country, so the walk felt amazing.
Sometimes, as I write, I think about our cottage in the Castro. We would step onto the patio. Behind us was the entrance to the two-story building. I wonder, did Freddy have a missing finger or just a big band-aid? Did he play guitar?
Still thinking about the Castro cottage: after leaving the big black iron gate, we would turn right and walk down to Castro Street. The theater was a block or two away, across the street. My mind drifts, and I expect to see the Mountain View ice-cream shop, the last one on the right, with railroad tracks across from it. I miss Kim’s and the lunch spots from NASA.
Sometimes I think I remember one of our living rooms, but then realize it’s just my old living room. It was in the tiny house where I grew up in Cupertino. I practiced flute near the front window. My mom was always in the garden, her hands covered in soil. I can picture the loveseat, the spot for the Christmas tree, and the little dining room. We even used it sometimes.
In Mountain View, the front door opened into the living room. There was a small dining area on the right and the kitchen straight ahead. The bathroom was to the right, the bedroom to the left, and the back door led straight to the small garage. Is that right?
Now, jumping to today: I woke up in Scotland. We’re upstairs in a tavern or pub. It’s around noon. We park in a dead-end alley, with the car on the right side of the street, facing the two-story building. We walk inside, turn right, and go up to the second floor. Inside, everything is wood—shiny, caramel-colored walls and a bar. The left side of the pub has windows, some with stained glass, flowers, a cross, and a pretty mosaic. Outside, the air is wet and gray. It feels like we are always walking through clouds.
Still in the Scottish pub, it’s fun trying to order vegetarian food. We sit at a high table and climb onto shiny chairs. We read the chalkboard behind the bar. We’re wandering through the highlands, with Cawdor Castle as our destination, maybe today or tomorrow. You order soup and a beer, and I have a cider and a salad. Later, I’ll ask you to stop at a market so I can get some cookies.
A local asks where we’re from and tells us his son is in New York, though he’s not sure why. He drops his shoulders and laughs, and we laugh too. Scots have big smiles and laughs, so it never feels gloomy here. We haven’t been invited to the Scottish boy’s birthday yet—that comes later. We’ll see a young man carried in a chair while friends and family wave pound notes.
I’ve been coping better in unfamiliar places. Jay made this possible, even if he didn’t mean to. I never feel unsafe with him. He’s confident, and he’s always been the smartest person I know. It took time to realize I was safe with him. That feeling grew and let me take risks. Taking risks with Jay made me start living.
Time shifts again: I fall asleep and want to travel more. I want to go back to that narrow, scary Scottish road that seemed to twist forever. But I woke up in Hawaii instead. That’s okay. I love waking up there, especially in Kauai. It wasn’t our honeymoon, but the time we stayed near the North Shore. We drove a red rental car to a roadside spot with a red arrow, parked, and hiked through mud and trees to a beach. We swam and watched fish in the warm sea. Every time, the warmth amazed me—I never knew an ocean could be so warm. Not Half Moon Bay, not Trinidad, not Cannon Beach. Those were the only oceans I knew before Jay. “Be careful. Watch out for jellyfish.”
Another place, another morning: I woke up in my art gallery. I loved that place. Jay came by to set something up on my computer. I had been browsing the DWR catalog, hoping to buy Jay something cool to sit in—something beautiful, comfortable, and good for his back. I looked up the Eames Lounge Chair and Ottoman. I knew he’d love it, but he would never buy it for himself. Moments later, I’m somewhere else. I was sipping a cranberry martini Jay made as I started waking up. In this room. Dallas.
I slammed myself into the hospital bed. Jay is holding my hand. I am pushing Flynn out of my body, with no pain relief. Jay keeps telling me I can do it. You can do it. So I do. That was January 7, 2005. I never wanted to believe all the things I knew were true about me, things I thought were only for other people. I’m a piece of shit. And I’m insane. It’s right there in my medical records. Today, I’ve wished many times I could rewrite my story. It’s unfair that I inherited a disease. It didn’t show up until I’d already thrown everything away. I even lost myself. Now, I see a life—my life—that hasn’t stopped just because I’m no longer in it. Every day, I wake up all over the world. I think about how to stop the constant waking up. So far, nothing has worked. The other day, I woke up in Ireland. We’d just hit a cow. Then I went to sleep in Dallas, by myself, knowing the biggest memory loss I have is that I’m hardly a memory for anyone anymore. I hope that soon I wake up in that little white villa in Andalusia. We drive to the convent on that five-foot wide, winding road. We ate those delicious chocolate treats the nuns made. Jay bought a flower from a nun and gave it to me. I hope I wake up here again soon. Spain. Warm. Health. Sangria.
Finally, I long for another place. I want to wake up in my Humboldt forest. I want to escape my small box with a bathroom. I want to crawl through fallen branches, under what used to be ferny canopies. I want to be drunk on liquor never brewed.
A silhouette of a face with intricate floral patterns, facing a hand holding a small flying figure. Text reads: “I taste a liquor never brewed – Emily Dickinson.”.
Hi, I’m Michelle/aka Feisty: a lifelong wanderer, storyteller and bipolar author.
I’m also an amnesiac; I live with both retrograde and antegrade amnesia.
Read on.
I was born with hemochromatosis, which is a genetic mutation of the HFE gene. This mutation is believed to have originated in Ireland and is linked to the body’s inefficient regulation of iron absorption.
Iron overload caused my gall bladder to rupture, requiring emergency surgery for organ removal.
When I woke up from anesthesia and I didn’t know who I was. Where I was. Who the people in the hospital room were. But even though I had trouble remembering and recognizing these people, I felt safe with them. As I type that now I remember how terrifyingly vulnerable I was, and at this moment it still gives me a tangible shock.
After the surgery I quickly realized that living independently was impossible. The doctors had revoked my license to drive, which I understood. But I could’t rely on friends for transportation indefinitely. I couldn’t stay on friend’s couches forever, but I had no safe place to go.
During this time I had nothing to cling to. I had no-one to talk with about my backstory. But I discovered that I’d d been keeping diaries since childhood. And I’d published three romance novels. As I started delving into decades of my own life stories, writing became a lifeline as I sought to piece together fragments of 4 decades of existence.
Through my words, I stumbled upon unsettling accounts of reckless behavior, feelings of profound loneliness, and raw reflections on my mother, who passed away from a brain tumor when I was seventeen.
I started to relive my life, from when I was a child. Having my mother’s big collection of letters, to and from her mother, I immersed myself in these bits of communication. And because there was so much writing—both handwritten and typed— I started realizing that I was re-experiencing many parts of my young life that I’d forgotten even before amnesia.
The only life I knew was the life I’d started to obsessively read, over and over my own narrations of my entire life.
But none of that helped me even think about what I needed to do with my life now.
I had a lifelong friend who lived in Texas. David drove to get me on the west coast and he moved me into this place in the middle of the country. Safe.
Now: I write. I knit. I snuggle with my dog, Mr. Darcy. This site serves as a platform for sharing my experiences and insights about living with amnesia.
A person wearing a wide-brimmed hat, large glasses, and a sleeveless black top stands outside. They have floral tattoos on their chest and arm, and a soft smile. Greenery is blurred in the background.
Now. I’m an instant photograph. I’m an undeveloped Polaroid, seeking light to provoke my emulsion. Layers of amnesia. Retrograde. Antegrade. Layers of pieces of myself, diffusing into the painstakingly, slowly developing images. Pieces of whoever I am. Whoever I was.
I’m not (not really) an amnesiac. I, Michelle Kathleen O’Kane etc., etc., etc., am a Time Traveler. An object.
An object in time travels if and only if the difference between its departure and arrival times as measured in the surrounding world does not equal the duration of the journey undergone by the object.
This place. The soft grey shawl, my knitting project on my bed. The book on my nightstand, The Echo of Old Books. My notebook, whose pinkish pages wait patiently for the next bit of words that I’m sure to emote.
Me Before and Me After incessantly converse about me. About myself. Every memory that used to be my life.
My existence used to encompass the world of seeing new places on other continents. And writing romance novels while I still believed in romance and excitement and love.
Memories of sharing meals with people I loved. Mimosas at brunch. Cosmopolitans before dinner. Vintage chardonnay with dinner.
I wake up while driving in various cars, and I’m always the driver. Often I’m 280, approaching the 92 exchange. Aware. While I’m driving I surround myself with the color-changing hills. I’m humming along with Elvis Costello. Everyday I write the book.
Now — I’m pointed west, driving to Half Moon Bay. I’m in various makes of cars, all of which I owned. Today I’m driving a clutch — my blue Ford Ranger. This is the car I purchased with money I inherited after my mother died. I am now 18, and she’d died just a few months ago, while I was 17.
I drive past memories. The Half Moon Bay Nursery, on the north side of 92. Then I’m just starting to drive through the outskirts of Half Moon Bay. My town. My ocean and sea salt and blue sky and sea, white wavy clouds tying the sun and sea together.
I’ve finally come to realized and understand how crazy I am.
I haven’t watched a movie with another person in—I forget.
I’m on my side. Gravity is giving me the soft push for rolling across the green grass. Damp grass leaves keep me alert. Behind me is the 5’4” wide trail I’ve left while rolling down this hill.
I’m jealous of many of the things I see on TV. And Instagram. Landscapes and cities and people at tables with white espresso cups.
Lives.
“You don’t look back along time but down through it, like water. Sometimes this comes to the surface, sometimes that, sometimes nothing. Nothing goes away.” — Margaret Atwood
A toddler with blonde hair stands on sandy beach facing the camera, while a man carrying a blue boogie board walks toward the ocean in the background. Several people are swimming in the waves under a bright sky.
It was just another day. I hadn’t spoken to anyone in awhile. Not that a while of time means anything.
People forget things. I forget the details of my life, but not the people I shared it with. My memories come and go as they please. Each day brings back travels and restaurants and movies and love. I wish I was capable of curating my life.
It was August. I was 22. Today I remember a walk from years ago, leading to a spot on Kauai’s beach. The west side. I had just married Jay. Our wedding night was the start of our honeymoon. We stayed in a tall hotel near San Francisco airport. From our room at the Hyatt, I watched planes take off and land. Planes full of strangers, coming and going. The next morning I was one of those people.
The memories stayed. In the days that followed, Jay and I got married just 24 hours later. We flew to Oahu, changed planes, then flew to Hilo. My grandmother told me, go to Waimea. It looks like Ireland, she said.
My grandmother’s advice was strange, but she was right. I’d been to Ireland. Waimea had rolling green hills. Standing there, I felt peaceful and restless at the same time. The blue sea behind the hills made me think of old dreams. It didn’t look like the lower Big Island. There were cows, and small houses scattered in the grass. The place felt Celtic, and that comforted me, but it also reminded me how far I was from home. We drove our little rental car with the air conditioning too cold. The cold helped settle my nerves. When we stopped, the heat outside surprised me. It was nothing like Ireland, where the cold seeps into your bones.
A few days later, we flew to Kona and rented a white car. We drove to Kiahuna Plantation. We spent ten days in a small, clean ground-floor condo. The kitchen was to the left of the door. The living room was straight ahead. Past the loveseat, sliding glass doors looked out at the backs of the beachfront condos.
We didn’t have an ocean view. It didn’t matter. We walked around the green pond. It was small, but it reminded me of us. Not flashy, but quietly there. Some things seem unimportant at first, but they grow on you. We reached the sand and the ocean. Above us, the blue sky.
I was 22 then. Now I’m 46. I live alone. I can’t remember what I ate for breakfast, but I remember the greenish dish towels in that condo. Worn, but clean. The bedroom was a step to the left. The bathroom, a step to the right.
Jay broke his back on that trip. Not, as he liked to joke, during honeymoon shenanigans. He was just body surfing in shallow water and injured his lower back.
He said he’d heard a crack in his lower back.
On the flight home to San Francisco, I knew Jay was in terrible pain. He’d traveled all over the world, and turbulence never bothered him. But after we buckled up, I saw sweat on his neck. He was hurting. Even then, he smiled at the flight attendant.I sat next to him, helpless. My heart pounded. I tried to hide my fear with a smile, just like he did. That helplessness made me feel closer to him.
I don’t remember what I ate the night before. Maybe I didn’t eat at all. Reflecting on our honeymoon, when Jay was 33, I trusted him completely. He smiled even when things broke, including me. Trust is beautiful.
But always , there are more strange truths.
Me and my kid hanging out on the Half Moon Bay Coast.
I’m not myself. I’m not Michelle Kathleen O’Kane. Now. I’m now a soggy, foggy photo of the person I used to be.
Now. I’m an instant photograph. I’m searching for light to provoke my emulsion. Collecting layers — bipolar layers. Layers of pieces of me diffuse into the painstakingly. Slowly developing monochromatic image — that was me. She.
I’m not (not really) an amnesiac. I, Michelle Kathleen O’Kane, am a Time Traveler. An object.
An object in time travels if and only if the difference between its departure and arrival times as measured in the surrounding world does not equal the duration of the journey undergone by the object.
That memory is never the same twice.
This place. The soft grey shawl is my WIP on my bed. The book on my nightstand. French.
Me Before and Me After incessantly converse about me. About myself. Every memory used to be my life.
My life used to encompass the world of seeing new places on other continents. And writing romance novels while I still believed in romance and excitement and love.
Memories of sharing many meals with people I loved.
I wake up while driving in various cars, and I’m always the driver. Frequently, I am 280, approaching the 92 exchange. Aware. While I’m driving, I surround myself with the color-changing hills. I’m humming along with Elvis Costello. I’m watching the detectives. (The Angels Wanna Wear) my red shoes.
I’m now pointed west, driving to Half Moon Bay. I own various makes of cars. Today I’m driving a clutch — my blue Ford Ranger. This is the car I purchased with the money I received after my mother died. I am now 18, and she died just a few months ago, while I was 17.
I drive past memories. The Half Moon Bay Nursery, on the south side of 92. on the south side of the road, and now I’m just starting to drive through the outskirts of the town. My town. My ocean and sea salt and blue blue blue sky and sea, white wavy clouds tying the sun and sea together.
I’ve finally come to realize and understand how crazy I am.
I haven’t watched a movie with another person in over 5 years. I haven’t laughed with someone in as many years. A few times, something I’m watching or hearing has caused the sound — the sharp chirp of a laugh. The noise scares me. Hearing my own laugh is such an unfamiliar sound that it shocks me. Then, of course, I’m sad.
I’m rolling myself down a hill. I’m on my side. Gravity is giving me no rolling across the green, touching damp grass leaves with my fingers and toes. A 5’4” lane that is created as I roll away.
That’s me. Again.
I’m jealous of so many things I see on TV. Landscapes, cities, and people at tables with white espresso cups.
Lives.
“You don’t look back along time but down through it, like water. Sometimes this comes to the surface, sometimes that, sometimes nothing. Nothing goes away.” — Margaret Atwood.
What do you do when you’ve lived your life and survived? Do you get a pistol and kill yourself? Do you shoot yourself in the head? If so, how do you do it? Point at your temple? Or do you shove the gun to the back of your throat, pointed up to get a good shot, to do the deed, seal the deal?
Your arms are not long enough to hold a shotgun. Also, you don’t own a shotgun.
There are many variables in something you’ve seen perfectly executed thousands of times, in films. In movies, most of the time, when people get killed, they get killed with a bullet. Pills are for the wealthy. And people with health insurance.
You have bleach, a box of razor blades you bought twenty years ago, at Flax, and a very sharp chef’s knife. But the knife was a birthday gift, so it seems disrespectful to use it to slit your wrists. Plus, wrist slitting seems like a serious challenge, and you’ve never been good with details.
It’s a method of problem-solving. It’s a process of a set of rules. It’s Wikipedia. They trick you. They teach you how to multiply numbers. They tell you that x=0. But they never call it a language or reveal that zero means nothing. Except for a vertical line.
What you want to do is: put the gun in your mouth and pull the trigger. Die in the bathtub, or maybe a field of gravel. Surrounded by blood: trickling, splattering, dripping. Sticky hair, messy. But not too messy—the whole point is to die with as little mess as possible, hence the bathtub. But a field doesn’t require the heartache of cleanup. Death is nature. Natural. Earthy. Tangible.
Michelle O’Kane 