When I saw the video for Rep. Giffords’ resignation, I couldn’t even cry. Her smile is wide and her spirit is strong, but the space between her words is much too familiar. In them, I hear her struggle to speak, to communicate with the outside world. I hear also the frustration with her new limitations, of being trapped with a body or mind that would not work as it once did. This is the tragedy of a traumatic brain injury. For those of us who are lucky enough to be present, you will forever know what you have lost.

Last night, when I saw her enter Congress for the State of the Union, I burst into tears. There was so much love from her peers, so much pride in her face. We citizens criticize Congress (sometimes rightfully so), but that moment should be congratulated. It is one of pure grace.

La Nuit S’ouvre, L’orage

I laughed. I had heard the joke before, and there were many variations. It’s hard to be depressed about cognitive dysfunction when you don’t remember that you have it. There’s no need to worry because I will forget what’s there to worry about. Family, friends, medical professionals, and even I had quipped about my condition, but these days I prefer not to mention the TBI. I am meeting too many people too often, and I too easily forget who I have told.

The story was engaging, not for its whodunit thriller but for its haunting familiarity. Written as a piecemeal stream-of-consciousness, those words I could have written years ago when I was more aware of my disability in my everyday life, when I was still fighting for my mind, when I was so desolate at my loss. The harsh shifts in mood and mental clarity were pages from my own journal. The uncomfortable mix of sly wit and social detachment was reflected in my mirror. The profound disintegration of a knowing mind was a glimpse into my possible future.

Writing helps. Writing helps me focus, and shape these amorphous thoughts into a concrete chronicle. Writing helps me remember, not just details of the narrative but character of the narrator, every single day.

He refers to what we do as the Two Circular Steps. Step One is admitting you have a problem. Step Two is forgetting you have the problem.

It gets a laugh every time, from some because they remember the joke from the last meeting, but from most because it’s new to them, no matter how many times they’ve heard it.

Today is a good day for me. I remember it. I would even add a third step: Step Three is remembering that you forget. Step Three is the hardest of all.

Memory Implant Gives Rats Sharper Recollection »

Researchers have developed technology that supplements learning and recall:

The rats were implanted with a tiny array of electrodes, which threaded from the top of the head down into two neighboring pieces of the hippocampus, a structure that is crucial for forming these new memories, in rats as in humans. The two slivers of tissue, called CA1 and CA3, communicate with each other as the brain learns and stores new information. The device transmits these exchanges to a computer.

[…]

The researchers, having recorded the appropriate signal from CA1, simply replayed it, like a melody on a player piano — and the animals remembered. The implant acted as if it were CA1, at least for this one task.

It seems like the implant needs to be active during learning to record the neural activity to be mimicked. This technology may not directly translate to humans and may not be viable at all for people who have severe neurodegenerative disorders, but this is still exciting as the realization of theory.

This is also very exciting for me. If I had a neural implant, maybe I wouldn’t lose words and time anymore.

But when I told my father that I would love to have this memory enhancer, he told me, “Amber, you are not a rat.”

I would beg to differ.