THE LOST DAY
Pick up the remote, can't remember what to do.
Like it's the first time I've done it, it's something new.
Start to feel clammy, scared, getting shorter of breath.
Chest starts to constrict I'm alone, staring at death.
What's on the screen looks like nothing I've seen before.
How long? Could be seconds, minutes, hours, maybe more.
I listen but don't hear, look but don't see.
Nothing familiar to this version of me.
I don't get lunch, make phone calls I don't remember,
don't know if we're in June, August or September.
I tell myself I won't let you know what's happened.
Should have known this day couldn't be scripted or planned.
The next day I come clean, feeling slightly heady
only to find I've told you three times already.
And with that my spirit temporarily dimsÂ
as we head down the path littered with acronyms.
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Comments
“This version of me” and “my spirit temporarily dims”.Â
I hope these feelings are just a passing cloud and the writer
will wake up seeing the sunshine. The lost day cannot be recovered, it’s gone,
but the new day can be embraced, or at least accepted with a fresh breath. Â
Bernadete.Â
Thank you Bernadette. This poem is about something that happened to me in 2011. It got diagnosed as many things. In the end it was agreed to call it Transient Global Amnesia. It didn't really scare me because at the time I was completely unaware it was happening. It was only later I realised the ramifications.Â