My mom had Transcient Global Amnesia....fur real!

November 2008

It’s 16h29 on a dismal Thursday afternoon. I am 7 months pregnant with Baby Boy # 2 and have just swallowed my guilt (and eleven handfuls of trail mix) and propped a snot-nosed Liam in front of Barney.

We missed Parents’ Evening on Tuesday night, because on Tuesday afternoon, my mom developed a little something called ‘Transient Global Amnesia’. As the name suggests, it is a complete shutdown of a person’s memory centre for about six really weird hours.

It’s also a good story.

At about 15h00 on Tuesday, I was sitting at the kitchen table doing a puzzle with Liam and psyching myself up for Clamber Club (which is lovely, but I’m increasingly less in the mood). My cell phone rings and the caller ID flashes ‘Mom’.

“Hi mom.”
“It’s not mom. It’s Brenda. We just washed your mom’s hair and she doesn’t know how she got here. She’s very confused. I think you should come and fetch her.”

Transient Ischaemic Attack. Must be that. She smokes, is 59 and has occasional high blood pressure. It’s a mini-stroke. I’ve seen this before. I can handle this.

“Is her speech normal?”, I ask.
“Ya. She’s just confused. She doesn’t know where she lives.”
“And physically okay? No tingles, numbness?”
“Perfect. She just doesn’t remember anything.”

Not a stroke.

Jesus. She’s having a nervous breakdown. Fucking perfect.

I leave Liam at home, promising that we’ll do Clamber Club next week and drive to my mom’s hairdresser. I phone my husband en route.

“I think my mom’s having a meltdown.”
“What do you mean?”

I tell him.

“Shit Josie. Is there anything I can do?”
“No. I’m fine.”

And unsurprisingly, I am.

I am even cool when I arrive at the hairdresser with my seven month belly and my mom asks me when I fell pregnant.
And when she asks me to phone Doug (her late partner, who had passed away in March this year).
And when she asks me who we are visiting at the Linksfield Clinic.

One characteristic of Type A’s is that when we’re in action-mode (which is usually what happens to us in a crisis), we’re capable, efficient and focused. We take the reigns, boss people around and just generally, get a whole lot done. It’s when we have nothing to do (which is next to never) that we freak-the-fuck-out.

Fortunately, that afternoon in casualty, answering my mom’s questions kept me busy (and somewhat humoured).

“Where’s Liam?”
“At home.”
“Who’s looking after him?”
“Thandi.”
“Who’s Thandi?”
“Sweet Lord. Our maid mom.”
“Oh. I’m very confused. How many kids have you got?”“Just Liam. And another on the way.”“Are you pregnant? I didn’t know. I should know that.”
“It’s okay mom. Your memory is taking a break now, so you won’t remember things you should. It will come back. Just try and be in the moment.”
“I’m scared.”
“I’m not. I know you’ll be fine. Trust me. I’m the one with all systems intact today and I’m telling you that you will be just fine in a few hours.”
“Okay. Joanne! You’re pregnant!”
“I am.”
“Where’s Liam?”
“At home mom.”
“Who’s looking after him?”
“Thandi. She’s our maid. She’s new. You won’t remember her.”
“Okay. This is scary… Where’s Liam?”

By now, I’m having visions of Estelle Getty and John Cleese doing the mambo in a new reality series - Monty Python meets The Golden Girls: When Madness and Alzheimers Collide.

Three hours and 814 questions later, we are sent for an MRI. My mom is very claustrophobic and has always said that “my biggest fear is going in one of those tunnels and not being able to move”.

She strikes up instant rapport with the radiographer and within minutes, they’re joking and laughing like high school buddies. (My mom is very amiable) I am now starting to get a little worked up, because she is only retaining new information for about 30 seconds at a time, which means that during the 20 minute brain scan, she may well keep having to re-register where she is. Waking up under that head grid in an MRI tunnel every 30 seconds will be enough to make her (even more) barking mad. Luckily, MRI is safe for pregnant women, so they let me sit with her and rub her feet and stroke her legs. I do this dutifully and because she can’t see me, I cry. Twice. Short blubs, and then I’m done. Incredibly, my mom lasts the full 20 minutes (a 20 minutes she still doesn’t recall) and we walk toward the radiographer triumphant.

“Hello. I know you from somewhere.” (this is my mom, talking to the now-perplexed radiographer)
“No mom. You met her 20 minutes ago. She’s the radiographer.”
“No. I’m telling you, I know you. Have you ever bought clothes from me?” (My mom has a shop)
“Mom! Seriously. You’ve been doing this to hospital staff all afternoon. She just seems familiar because you’ve met her already and you can’t remember.”
“Joanne. I think I’d know if I’d met someone 20 minutes ago. Maybe you were here when Doug was in hospital?”
“Let’s go mom.”

The hospital ‘escort’ (who we’ve been chaperoned by 3 times already) appears.

“You ready to go back to casualty madam?”
“You look so familiar. I know you from somewhere.”“Yes madam. I met you today. Three times.”

Bea Arthur is now doing the fox trot with Rowan Atkinson. And it ain’t pretty.