I was born. I saw a few things. I wrote some of it down.
I lived for a little while, as we all do, and I will die, as we all will.
I’m happy that I came out of nonexistence and saw the sun before I go back.
Birthday
came out of the bookstore onto carson by comma coffee. had an old paris review. cost me $5.50. not bad. some paintings by woody guthrie were on the cover. i couldn't read it. i was too crazy.
the guys in the bookshop were laid back and friendly. we'd talked a little. the kid'd been sorting books, pulling them out of boxes. he asked the older one who isadora duncan was. there was an old autobiography. the old guy said he couldnt remember. "she'll know," referring to me. i dont know why he said it, but he was right, so i told them who she was. then i went out and walked. i had to hurry. i had to tell everybody the big news. i felt mad with it.
i stopped outside a restaurant. people were eating on the patio. good a place as any. i had to tell everybody about my baby. to tell the truth, i was kind of dizzy. too much excitement all at once. out of the blue, so to speak. i felt like my whole body was vibrating. sizzling. i was infused with light. i looked at the people. i looked at their plates. i looked at their decanters of wine. they were just stuffing their faces and staring at their phones. i had to wake them before they faded into nothing, there wasnt much time left for them. they were killing themselves with gluten and sulfites. the phones were frying their eyeballs. they sat there talking too much and saying nothing.
well, i was gonna talk and i was gonna say something. i was gonna scream it at them. and just like that i did.
My name is Michelle, she/her. I’m a writer. And amnesiac. In 2019, my gallbladder ruptured. The rupture caused a severe infection that cut off oxygen to my brain, leading to permanent damage. I remember the fluorescent hospital lights, the stiff sheets, and then nothing. When I opened my eyes, almost everything was gone, including my memories, my sense of place, the thread of my own story.
I was diagnosed with both retrograde and anterograde amnesia. I live between forgetting and trying to remember, always reaching for memories that slip away before I can hold them.
So I write them.
After surgery, when I opened my eyes, nothing made sense. I’d forgotten 99% of my entire life. I didn’t know who anybody was, including myself.
A person with short, pink-tinted hair and large glasses is wearing headphones and a hospital gown, sitting in a hospital bed. Medical equipment and a green wall are visible in the background.
Writing is instinct. Breathing. I don’t remember the words I wrote. Sometimes I find my own books on the shelf. Three novels. Three short stories. My name on the covers. I don’t remember the stories. But I know I’m a writer. My process is different now. I write in small bursts, piecing sentences together, never sure if I've written them before. I reread what I just wrote, sometimes again and again, editing by feel, by rhythm, trusting what sounds true. I leave notes for myself, reminders in the margins. Each draft is a new discovery.
This site is fragments. Writing. Photos. Pieces of my story. I share them to make sense of what’s left. The stories that keep going, even when my memory doesn’t.
Memory shapes every sentence. Sometimes I lose the thread halfway through. I collect notes. Fragments. Chapters. My current project: Born Without An Algorithm. A memoir. Living with a mind that won’t follow the rules. Writing. Forgetting. Writing again.
In this book, I explore what it means to rebuild a life without a map—how identity, purpose, and connection survive when memory fades. The story weaves together moments of loss and moments of unexpected discovery, searching for meaning in the spaces between what is remembered and what is forgotten. And all the shit that's bumping around inside all of it.
A woman with long red hair, large glasses, and a rose tattoo on her shoulder stands in front of shelves and a table filled with colorful balls of yarn. She is smiling slightly and looking at the camera.
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 is on my bed, and my knitting project is on my bed. The book on my nightstand is The Echo of Old Books. My notebook, whose pinkish pages wait patiently for the next bit of words that I’m sure to emote before incessantly conversing about me. About myself. Every thing 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. Frequently, 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. Every day 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 died just a few months ago.
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, sea salt, and blue sky and sea, white wavy clouds tying the sun and sea together. I’ve finally realized and understood 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. My laugh. The noise scares me. Hearing my own laugh is such an unfamiliar sound that it shocks me.
Time is on my side, and so am I. Gravity is giving me a gentle push to roll 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.“You don’t look back along time but down through it, like water. Sometimes this comes to the surface, sometimes that, sometimes nothing.
I write. Right now, I’m piecing together a book about my forty-five years on (this) earth. The chapters swirl around in my head, sometimes all at once. Interactive, interweaving waves of color.
When I was forty-two, my gallbladder exploded. Emergency surgery, bright lights, then nothing. I woke up lost. I didn’t know my name. I didn’t know anyone. The doctors called it retrograde and antegrade amnesia. My life, as I knew it, was gone.
Living on my own was no longer possible. Luckily, a few kind friends took me in right away. Every morning, I woke up confused, not recognizing where I was, even in places I’d been many times before. My friends patiently showed me to the bathroom and helped me get around the house so I wouldn’t get lost or wander off.
No driver’s license. I depended on friends for everything—groceries, doctor visits, the smallest errands. My body shrank to 92 pounds. Sometimes I liked it. Body image is a strange thing.
I needed help finding clothes that didn’t hang off me.
I found stacks of diaries, my handwriting looping across the pages. I’d been writing my whole life and didn’t remember any of it. I’ve even published three romance novels. Pride and panic, both at once. My words became a map back to myself.
Reading my old words, I found things I didn’t want to remember. Wild choices. Loneliness that filled whole pages. My mother, gone when I was seventeen, kept showing up in the margins. Her absence was everywhere.
Some memories came back, but only in pieces. Most days, I still live with the blank spaces. Amnesia shapes everything—my routines, my sense of who I am. Me.
This is where I try to make sense of living with amnesia. I write to find the shape of my story, and maybe connect with someone else who understands.
My name is Michelle, she/her. I’m a writer. And amnesiac. In 2019, my gallbladder ruptured. The rupture caused a severe infection that cut off oxygen to my brain, leading to permanent brain damage.
Retrograde amnesia is a form of memory loss characterized by an inability to recall events that occurred before the onset of amnesia.
Anterograde amnesia is a type of memory loss that prevents the formation of new memories.
After surgery, living alone was impossible, but soon after, wonderful friends welcomed me into their homes.
During the first weeks after surgery, every morning brought the same paralyzing confusion. I had no idea where I was, even in houses I'd visited dozens of times. People quietly escorted me to the bathroom so I wouldn't disappear elsewhere in their home.
After losing my driver's license, which happened soon after the onset of my amnesia, I had to rely on others for meals. Formidable tasks, such as walking to a store, became futile, overwhelming battles.
As a writer, I found the diaries I'd kept since childhood. Reading entries—like discovering my three published romance novels—helped me piece together my life, even as it often felt like reading stories written by a stranger.
In the early months of recovery, I couldn't live on my own anymore. My driver's lisence was taken away.
Every morning, I woke up sad, scared, and confused, not knowing where I was. But as days passed, I started waking up to find sweet, handwritten notes that announced where I was. It wasn't uncommon for me to wake up many times a day.
The rare times I managed to sleep during those first months after surgery created a world in which the differences in my existence made me feel as if I were a book that had been instantly deleted. And now I was rewriting my stories in the absolute wrong order.
(Which is how my memoir about my existence as an amnesiac is being written.)
My friends patiently helped me navigate their homes, guiding me to the bathroom, kitchen, and backyard to prevent me from becoming lost.
After losing my driver's license soon after surgery, I relied on others for essentials like food. My weight dropped to 92 pounds, and I was deeply grateful for their help during this difficult time.
Through those diaries, I tried to assemble the pieces of my life, learning who I was page by page.
As I pieced together my history, I found stories about risky choices, profound loneliness, and honest thoughts about my mom, who died after brain surgery when I was 17.
Now, years after the surgery and the onset of amnesia, I'm still learning about myself every day.
My writings revealed moments of pain and loneliness, but also my vulnerability and love for my mom, who died after surgery to remove her brain tumor when I was 17. Her influence still guides me.
Some memories are slowly returning, but severe retrograde and antegrade amnesia still shape my daily life.
Here, I share my writing about what it's like to live with amnesia.
I'm glad you're here. Welcome to my world. Some days I remember, some days I forget, but I always keep writing.
And knitting.
And attempting to play my ukulele, which is a frequently unwon battle.
My memories are scattered. Sometimes they show up as sharp fragments, bloody and jagged, lost pieces of time. Other times, the past grows hazy and slips away when I try to hold on. My mind feels like an abstract painting, and I have no idea who created it.
I walk alone through Bilbao, the streets uneven beneath me. My Tivas dig into my feet, straps leaving red marks I’ll find later, reminders that I was here.
Pebbles shift under my steps, tiny echoes of all the pieces I carry inside. Each movement pulls at something old, something I thought I’d left behind.
The air is thick, smoky, pressing into my lungs. Everywhere I look, there are fragments—shards of things, of people. Blood on metal, heat rising. Even the faces around me seem unfinished, as if everyone is made from scraps. The world outside leaks into the world inside me. Both are scattered, both incomplete.
I am my own small world. Love, grief, memory—these are the things I hold. Words and air, snowflakes that drift down and melt before I can touch them.
At first, it’s a party. People bring food, flowers, and booze. They clean, cook, and ask, wanting to know. Books arrive; walks are suggested. They plan the memorial, stay by your side. Like a birthday party, a memorial celebrates a life.
After the memorial, the world shifts. Friends slip away, returning to their own routines, showing up only on weekends. The phone sits silent. Walks get shorter, then vanish. No more casseroles, no foil-wrapped leftovers waiting in the fridge. Flowers droop, water rings left behind on the counter.
How are you doing? People still ask, voices softer, but they don’t wait for the answer. Their words drift back to errands, dinners, the business of living. I stand just outside, watching, unchanged, as if I’m behind glass.
But my life isn’t there to return to. It’s gone. It won’t come back.
Who do I cook for now? No one stands beside me at the stove. The kitchen is too quiet. At first, there was only shock. Now the phone is cold, silent, no more silly messages lighting up the screen. I feel everything, then nothing, learning the shape of the empty space. Routine molds me. Outside, life keeps moving, as if nothing happened.
Then, somehow, things start to look normal again. The world keeps moving, and I watch from the window. Something unsettled lingers in the air. I cry less. I laugh sometimes, but the hollow stays. I listen to a podcast, eat breakfast, try to fill the emptiness with small rituals. This new normal never matches what’s inside me.
Life keeps going, and so do I. I carry loss and whatever strength I have, step by step.
Shock and disbelief have faded. I’m not numb anymore. The wounds are hidden under skin, but the ache is still there. My mind clings to blurry, aching pictures.
Memories. Trees. Babies. So much beautiful food. Love. Hate. Sadness.
So many memories are fading, breaking down like old photographs left in a drawer. The pictures I used to see clearly now blur together, shifting from sharp color to washed-out black and white.
I know I’ll remember it all again. Each time I reach for a memory, it changes shape. Nothing stays the same. Every visit shifts the scene—old pictures replaced, blurred by new feelings.
My friends go out to dinner. They drive to the lake for the day. They eat at home or at someone else’s table. They slip back into their own worlds. Mine is just too fucking quiet.
I stand still in front of Guernica. My mind keeps circling back to Bilbao, again and again. Maybe I’m trying to find the memories I lost.
Now, when I look at photos of the Guggenheim Bilbao—whether in my mind or from the times I was really there—I see the building’s soft, flowing lines. I can almost feel the curve, cool and smooth under my hand.
I want to see flowers. I want to feel warm water. I want to feel waves melting around around my body. I feel stupid. I feel smart. Do I feel smart because I'm so fucking stupid? Feelings are supposed to be shown, not told, when writing. Show don't tell. I want to feel happy. I want to eat. I want to know. I want my hair to not fall out. I need a break. I need a brain. I want a break that lasts me the rest of my life and beyond.
I don't want to be standing on the gymnastics floor, eight years old, with my gymnastics teacher, Wayne, behind me. Gently reaching around to push his hands down the front of my shorts. I told my mom.
She stared at me.
I want my hair back. I want my life back. I want a sandwich. I want ice-cream. I want to eat with love. With people I love. And who love me. I want to sleep. Forever. I want to live happily. Indefinitely. I want to hold my newborn son, every one of these days. I want to be in love and mean it. I want to hide in a lake. I want to hide with fish. I want to write about people who exist, and who are good. Instead I'm swimming fiercely in rocky, murky water. My legs are drumsticks. My legs beat beat beat. The wood, shattering on the wet, sharp rocks. I taste blood. I remember the metallic, plastic, blasting—the sound of my typewriter smashing cement after I threw it over my second-floor balcony. Little brown buttons with letters in a dark courier font splattered the ground. H and I, two stated.
Whenever I find myself in the hospital room, standing next to the bed on which is resting my dead mother, in indecipherable spans of time, I am looking out the window. It is Summer Solstice, which means I am nearly exactly 17.5 years old. I am staring at the white blinds, which are slanted open, and I look through countless strips of plastic, I am looking at the sky. The sky is blue. Above the top of the concrete roof of the fifth floor of the other wing of The Hospital, the sky is blue. It's that clear, clear, clear, clean, windex blue. The kind of blue that only happens for a little bit of time, on days with a slight breeze, and little pollution. Danny and I--Danny Lee Clark Junior (he's dead now, too) and I--had left the trailer in San Jose, after the call came, around 7:30 a.m. Now, it was around 9:30. It wasn't yet 10:00. The light would be less clear at 10:00. It would start to look hot. And it was, after all, June. June 14th. 1990. I look at my mother. I look at her. She looks peaceful. I'd never seen her look so peaceful. Ever. The bandage wrapped around the top of her head was neat, and clean, and white. It only covered the top of her eyebrows. I would not--did not--think about the bloody wound hiding beneath the clean, white dressing. It was all dead. She was dead. Standing on my balcony, in Reno, I watched the explosion.
When the typewriter hit the concrete, the black ribbon spool still pressed against paper. After the ancient typing machine crashed onto the ground, I remember brown leaves drifting around my brown typewriter, like ballerinas, floating in the blasted air. Today, now, I want to see the brown leaves drifting across the scuffled concr ete of my patio. I want to look between the brown patio steps and see the ground. I want to hear the shuffling sound of shoes as people walk on the other side of the fence, unaware of what they're missing over here.
What I want to be is home. I want to be cooking paella on my stove, in our house, that I toured with Jay with a real estate agent. I want to be standing in our kitchen, in front of the counter, chopping vegetables on the countertop that I designed. I want to boil water on the stove that I, after much research, had installed. Our 5-year-old son watches something silly on the tv with J, who is sitting on the long sofa, a shot-glass of to-be-sipped-slowly tequila in his hand. They watch the green Bang & Olufsen television. I want to be there, at home, where I was--where I thought I was--safe. Safety is an observation.
