I forgot I was married!
Stephanie Woods didn't recognise her husband
Monday 11th February 2008
Everyone has special memories, don't they? Perhaps it's the song that was playing when you had your first kiss, the smell of your newborn baby's skin, or the feel of your husband's arms around your waist. They're always guaranteed to make you smile. But for me, just the mention of memory is painful. Because I've spent the past 12 years desperately trying to regain mine.
In January 1996, I collapsed at home, and slipped into a coma. When I woke up seven weeks later, at St Peter's Hospital in Chertsey, I couldn't remember a single thing.
THE AWAKENING announced the headlines. IMAGINE EMERGING FROM A COMA AND REMEMBERING NOTHING OF YOUR 40-YEAR LIFE.
Everyone was celebrating me waking up, but for me, it was the start of the nightmare. You can't imagine how terrifying it was. The first problem was the strange man standing next to my bed.
'Hello, Stephanie,' he whispered, tenderly kissing my cheek. 'I'm so glad you're awake.'
Who on earth is he? I thought, looking at his smart uniform and blue eyes.
It was the doctors who told me this man was Barry, then 40, my husband of 17 years, who worked as a pilot. But I didn't recognise him. And I had no recollection of our three children, Natalie, 10, Genevieve, 7, and William, 5.
'What's going on?' I mumbled, stumbling over the words.
'You've been in a coma,' Barry explained gently. 'Seven weeks ago, I came home from work and found you unconscious.'
Doctors had diagnosed acute intermittent porphyria, a rare brain condition. Now, I felt as if I'd been abducted by aliens and woken up on a strange planet where nothing made sense. I couldn't even remember what I looked like, let alone my parents, June and Malcolm, or any of my friends.
Physically, I was fully recovered so, two days later, Barry took me home. I knew instinctively I had to trust him. But when we pulled up outside our five-bedroom Victorian semi, I burst into tears.
'This isn't our house,' I sobbed.
'Yes it is,' Barry replied. 'Come on, let's get you inside.'
For hours, I roamed around. Rummaging through the clothes in the wardrobe made me feel sick. They aren't mine, I thought. The house was full of ornaments I'd bought and cushions I'd crocheted, but they didn't mean anything to me. I could hardly remember how to string a sentence together, let alone crochet. Even worse was the moment I was reunited with the children.
They'd been staying at a friend's and I was sitting in the garden when they came running out to me.
'Mummy! Mummy!' they screamed, hugging me.
Not a spark of recognition.
'Hello,' I whispered, forcing a smile.
Are they really mine?
'We hope youget better soon,' William gulped, snuggling his head in my shoulder.
I choked back tears. I couldn't remember being pregnant, let alone giving birth. Sensing my terror, Barry gave me a smile.
'Don't worry,' he whispered. 'It'll come eventually.'
If only.
Fortunately, I felt safe with Barry. He was so kind and considerate, it was obvious how much he loved me and how glad he was to have me home. He'd even put flowers on the bedside table. It didn't stop me feeling odd about sharing a bed with someone I didn't recognise. But deep down, somewhere in my mind, I knew I loved Barry and that night, we even had sex.
Barry was determined to help me pick up the pieces of my past and, a couple of days later, he sat me down with a photo album.
'Why don't you take a look?' he offered.
I flicked through the pages. A woman in a white wedding dress… A baby girl giggling in a bath… The emptiness in my mind was so terrible, I could hardly bear to look at them. What kind of mother was I, if I couldn't remember my own children growing up?
During the next few months, I felt useless. I couldn't lock the bathroom door, in case I injured myself and I couldn't get the kids ready for school, because I'd forgotten what clothes went together. I couldn't even cook a simple meal, because I had no idea which foods were sweet and which were savoury.
I was totally reliant on Barry, my mum, now 79, and Barry's mum, Barbara, 75. Not that I knew them from Adam, of course. But even their support couldn't lift the fog of misery my illness was creating in all our lives. So a couple of months later, in May 1996, I sat Barry down.
'I want you to divorce me,' I wept. 'It'll be best for you and the kids. I don't want to be a burden.'
'Don't be ridiculous,' he said, shocked. 'When I said those wedding vows, I meant them. I love you in sickness and in health.'
Seeing the determination in his eyes, I knew he meant it. Barry was prepared to support me, no matter what. The truth was, I didn't have to learn to love him again, I just did. And he wasn't the only one doing his best to help me through my ordeal. The kids were a tower of strength, too. They told me that in my previous life, I'd loved reading but now, I'd forgotten how to spell. So I'd practise writing in the day, and after school, Genevieve and Natalie would go through and mark the mistakes. Slowly, I got to know them again, and my love for them grew. I even started to feel more confident.
Sometimes, I'd pluck up the courage to go to the shops with Barry, or to the local pub. And in December 1996, I even ventured out to meet Barry at our local on my own. Taking a deep breath, I stepped inside. Suddenly, I felt people staring and saw a look of horror on Barry's face. I glanced down and froze.
'Oh my God!' I gasped. 'I've got my pyjamas on!'
The shame. But Barry was a star.
'It doesn't matter, love,' he smiled.
If he was embarrassed, he hid it well, and we just laughed it off.
And with his patience and support, I slowly learned how to live again. Nights spent poring over the photo album helped. The pictures of the kids jogged my brain into action. I began to remember reading them Beatrix Potter stories at bedtime and playing with them in the garden. My short-term memory was awful, though. I still couldn't recognise friends or tell the difference between, say, an apple and a pear.
Somehow, I got a cleaning job. But within a month, I was sacked because I was now colour-blind and couldn't tell the difference between the coloured linen. I felt like giving up there and then. But Barry wouldn't let me.
'You'll find another job,' he said. 'I know you will.'
And he was right. The following year, I finally found a job working one day a week as a florist. It gave me the confidence boost I needed.And not long afterwards, my friend, Frances Carey, 55, persuaded me to join a local gym. I was terrified I'd see someone I knew and not recognise them, but Barry put it in perspective.
'If they recognise you, they'll talk to you,' he said. 'If not, who cares?'
He was right. I started going a few times a week and what with that and the job, I felt I was getting my independence back.
And, 10 years on, it's that routine which keeps me going. I'll never be cured. Even now, I can't name my nieces or nephews and wouldn't be able to pick them out of a crowd. But I'm determined to make the most out of life, so in March, I'm off to China on my own to raise funds for breast cancer research.
It's something I'd never have been able to do 12 years ago, and I couldn't have done it without the support of my family. William's 17 now and preparing for his A levels. Genevieve's at uni and Natalie has graduated. This year, Barry and I celebrate 30 years of marriage. I might not remember everything about it, but I know I can count on him. That means more than any memory.
The full stories appear in Pick Me Up magazine, out Thursdays. But if you've missed an issue, check out our Story Library where old stories are printed IN FULL!