Memory Loss Needs to Be Taken More Seriously

If you’ve read my previous post about my spring illness, you may know that I suffered severe memory loss, particularly around the week week when I was sickest. Most people lump memory loss and dementia together and further lump it with age.

In my case, it’s not age-related. My cognitive function has been permanently damaged. Considering one of my main diagnoses was acute hepatic encephalopathy, some problems were already present weeks if not months before I got sick.

Throughout my illness, the doctors essentially acted like the memory loss was no big deal. I’m assuming it’s common or that getting me to live was more important. Unfortunately, even as I recovered, I noticed that some of the things I’d always been good at were gone, like spelling of medical terms.

In researching amnesia, I’ve learned that other than childhood amnesia, which is common among most people, amnesia or memory loss not related to dementia is usually the result of damage to the hippocampus of the brain.

The damage can be from a traumatic head injury like stroke, loss of oxygen for any period of time, a blow to the head, or build up of toxins in the blood. I know I experienced two and possibly three of those; the buildup of toxins (namely ammonia and bilirubin) and anoxia (loss of oxygen). I possibly suffered a small stroke.

I didn’t lose any basic skills like talking, walking, or movement. It didn’t alarm the doctors enough to order an MRI. My PCP said the damage might not even show up on a scan.

Loss of basic memories and events aren’t pressing concerns for physicians, because there is no way to know what information the brain contained prior to an illness. I’m assuming there’s no way to prove I’m telling the truth when I say my short-term memory is gone.

The brain has always fascinated me. I love how it works. If I’d become a doctor, I hope I’d become a neurosurgeon.

When it comes to remembering what happened in that week, I go back and forth as to whether or not I want those memories or not. A part of me believes that it is nature’s way of protecting me from the trauma. There are moments when I think I remember bits and pieces of that first ambulance ride. I don’t remember anything about that first trip to the emergency room (much less the second) or that ambulance ride to Vanderbilt.

The scariest part is that my life changed by this illness. I lost my job. I don’t know where this journey will end or if it will happen again. Acute hepatic encephalopathy has a very low survival rate. Not remembering what happened or why it happened makes it even scarier.

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