From nothing to everything

Part I

MICHELLE FINISHED ADDING GROUND coffee to the drip brewer and switched it on. Pausing, she sipped her glass of chilled orange juice enjoying the sweet flavor and pulp, then checked that the toaster was ready. With the frying pan warming, a pat of butter melting, and fresh eggs waiting at the side, she checked her watch.

Where was he? Usually he was the first up in the morning, especially today, Father’s Day.

She moved the frying pan off the heat and left the kitchen, walked down the hall of the sprawling bungalow-style home, and into his bedroom. Dad was sound asleep, uncovered from the waist up, his sandy hair a mess. She moved to the bed and shook his shoulder. “Time to wake up.”

He didn’t stir. She shook his shoulder harder. “Wake up, Dad.” With no response and a tickle of worry, she shoved his shoulder, relieved when he finally stirred, his eyes opening.

“It’s Father’s Day! Time to get up,” she repeated.

Something was off in his pale grey eyes. They had a strange expression she’d never seen before. He studied her for a moment then asked, “Who are you?”

Michelle laughed. “Stop kidding around and get up.”

When his expression didn’t change, a thread of fear wormed into her, her heart beating faster. “You really don’t know who I am?” she asked.

“No. Who are you?”

“I’m Michelle, your daughter.” When he didn’t respond, she asked, “Dad? What day of the week is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“What year is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s your name?”

He didn’t answer, his brow wrinkling in concentration. She didn’t like the confusion in his eyes or the lack of affection he usually had in his voice.

Now panic threatened her. “Get up and get dressed RIGHT NOW, Dad! We’re going to the hospital. There’s something wrong with you!”

When he didn’t move, Michelle yelled, fear making her louder. “GET UP!”

An hour later, Michelle sat quietly in the examination room as a neurosurgeon flashed a penlight in each of Dad’s eyes, talking to him in a soft voice.

“Can you tell me who the Prime Minister is?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Dad answered. “John something?”

“Where were you born?”

“I don’t remember.”

As the surgeon asked more questions, Michelle’s fear intensified, her heart thumping, her hands damp. Why couldn’t Dad remember? What happened last night?”

“We’re going to conduct some tests, Mr. Jerry,” the surgeon said. “There could be a blood clot in your brain causing your memory loss.”

“Is that my name?” Dad asked. Before the surgeon could answer, Dad glanced at Michelle. “You’re my daughter?”

Michelle nodded and wiped her eyes before tears could fall. “You’ll be okay, Dad.”

Once Dad was wheeled out of the examination room, Michelle found a seat in the waiting room. The doctor had told her it would be a while, with Dad undergoing x-rays and possibly an MRI scan.

Sunday morning in the hospital was oddly busy. She watched people come and go, some obviously injured, some in pain, family members distraught, one wife chastising her husband for something stupid he’d done - his arm and hand wrapped in a bloody towel.

For the first hour she was numb with shock. Adrenaline faded to be replaced by fear. What had happened to his brain? What would happen if he couldn’t get his memory back?

She thought about her life with Dad. In so many ways she thought herself lucky, especially compared to some of her friends. Despite losing Mom five years ago, Dad had made sure she felt secure. Sure, he was a pain and bugged her about her school grades. He worked far too hard and long, long hours. And she didn’t like the chores he made her do when she’d rather be out with her friends. But he was Dad. He was supposed to do those things. He never yelled at her. He didn’t punish her. He went out of his way to support her school activities even if he couldn’t be there.

Maybe he didn’t spend as much time with her as she wanted. But he was Dad. My dad! The only family she had.

Worry distracted her. She waited, sitting on the hard plastic chair, lost in “What ifs?”

“Mr Jerry?”

Shaking herself, she looked up. Dr. Mcdonalds was approaching. He was youngish, about Dad’s age - mid thirties - with sharp, intelligent brown eyes behind wire-framed glasses, slender and short.

She jumped up. “Is he better?”

Dr. Mcdonalds sat in the seat next to her. She sat down. He turned slightly towards her. “The good news is your father does not appear to have a brain clot. He seems healthy.”

“Then, what’s wrong with him?”

“The truth is, we don’t know.” The doctor paused before continuing. “Physically, every test we’ve run has been negative.” His expression softened. “The brain is a mystery to us, even today. We know a little about it, but there are still mysteries we don’t understand. From a health standpoint, your father is fine. That’s good. He’s suffering from retrograde amnesia; he’s lost his episodic memories.”

“I don’t understand,” Michelle told him.

Dr. Mcdonalds smiled gently. “Think about riding a bike. Your father can describe how to ride a bike - we call that semantic memory - but he can’t remember when he learned how to ride a bike. He can’t remember the event itself.”

“But, he doesn’t remember me!” she said.

“That’s true. At the moment, you’re the keeper of his memories. All he’ll know about his past is what’s in your mind.”

Michelle wrestled with the news. “Will he ever remember?” she asked.

“No one can answer that. We simply don’t understand enough. He might wake up tomorrow with all his memories back, or it might take months or years ... or perhaps never.”

Michelle’s eyes welled. She brushed the tears away. “He didn’t even know I’m his daughter.”

Dr. Mcdonalds put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “It’s going to be hard on both of you. Try not to inundate him with information. He’s grappling to come to terms with his condition. Just be yourself and help him. Tell him about your life together, but don’t overwhelm him. It might help.”

Michelle nodded, looking down at her lap.