He referred to his major disability as a loss of “speech-memory.” And he had good reason to do so. Before he was wounded, words had distinct meanings which readily occurred to him. Each word was part of a vital world to which it was linked by thousands of associations; each aroused a flood of vivid and graphic recollections. To be in command of a word meant he was able to evoke almost any impression of the past, to understand relationships between things, conceive ideas, and be in control of his life. And now all this had been obliterated.
In part, words have lost meaning for me or have a meaning that’s incomplete and unformed. This is true mostly of the objective characteristics of things like table, sun, wind, sky, etc. I’ve lost track of both these words and their meaning. Mostly, I can’t think of or imagine a lot of the words that have to do with things I studied.
Because of the trauma that my skull and brain suffered, my visual and auditory memories have become detached. I’ll see a letter or number but won’t be able to think of the word for it right away, or hear a letter or a number mentioned and not be able to visualize what either one looks like. I’ve often thought that’s why my speaking and memory have gotten so bad—sometimes it takes me an entire day to think of a word for something I’ve seen and be able to say it. And vice versa: I’ll hear a word (or say a particular number) but not be able to visualize it right away or form any image of it. It may even take a long while for me to remember what it means.
During the months right after he was wounded this “failure to remember words” was particularly distressing. He had forgotten even the most common words and had to search for them, sifting and groping through his memory like a man trapped in a dark and unfamiliar room. Moreover, words not only refused to come to mind but had taken on a strange ring, so that often he had to make an effort to remember what they meant. And the time spent convulsively searching his memory was long indeed.
For the first few years after I was wounded it took a long time for me to think of the word for an object, even though the very thing I was searching for was right there in front of me. If someone mentioned a particular object, I couldn’t visualize it on the spot. When the doctor would say: “Lyova, can you point to your eye?” I wouldn’t understand what he was talking about. That’s happened to me again and again ever since I was wounded, because I can’t grasp the meaning right away or concentrate on a particular word. When the doctor would repeat his question, I’d rack my brain trying to remember what the word eye meant. Suddenly I’d look around and remember that the word eye referred to a part of my body. Finally, when I realized this, I was able to say the word and point to my eye. Then he would ask me to point to my nose. Once again I’d wonder what that word meant and I would keep on repeating it for a few minutes until I finally remembered. Next, he’d ask me if I could remember the word ear. It would take a few minutes too for that word to come to me. When the doctor tried to test me and see what I recalled, I’d have to hunt for those words again. It’s a miserable problem to deal with.
When different words would come to mind, I’d whisper them to myself. Often these were words I myself had used in talking to people that day, but I’d quickly forget them unless they just popped into my mind. Later that day when the doctor tested me, I remembered the words I had been searching for.
Another time the doctor would point to his own eyes, ears, or nose and ask me what they were. I’d try to think of the words and finally, after a long struggle, I would remember. Hurrah, at last I’d gotten them right. Still, there seems to be an endless barrier blocking off my memory of words most of the time. When I used to hear the words back or neck, I had even more trouble. I simply had forgotten what they meant, although I knew they were familiar and had something to do with a person’s body. But what, 1 just didn’t know. Generally, I have some peculiar kind of forgetfulness or amnesia with almost any word, or else I’m very slow. I can’t remember a word immediately or if I can, I don’t know what it means. When my therapist would point to a lamp and ask me what it was, I’d try to remember, but it was a struggle. A certain amount of time had to pass before I could think of the name of an object. I’d have to look at the lamp and various other objects in my room. I’d keep hoping some of the objects would become memory props and I’d try to remember them, comparing different objects in the room so they could help me recall words and talk more easily.
Months after he left the hospital he was still burdened by this problem. For example, when he was living at home with his mother and sisters in Kimovsk, he’d be asked to run some small errand—to fetch something from the basement storeroom or buy some bread or cereal at the store. What could have been simpler? Yet these proved terribly difficult, for he had forgotten the most commonplace expressions, words he had used daily since he was a child. These did not occur to him at once but seemed to be hidden in some remote corner of his mind. Hence he had to strain his memory to get any clear notion of them. When he finally did manage to figure out what they meant, he forgot them a minute later. He was beside himself, absolutely unable to deal with these and other problems.
If commonplace expressions were difficult, they were as nothing compared to the problems he had understanding concepts he had learned and used in his daily life at home or in the institute. In a world where words seemed so strange and ideas were buried in amnesia, it required the most painful effort for him to recover his capacity to speak, his “speech-memory,” as he put it.
Every word I hear seems vaguely familiar (after all, I’d once learned enough to get through three years at a polytechnic institute). As far as my memory’s concerned, I know a particular word exists, except that it has lost meaning. I don’t understand it as I did before I was wounded. This means that if I hear the word “table” I can’t figure out what it is right away, what it is related to. I just have a feeling that the word is somewhat familiar, but that’s all.
So I have to limit myself to words that “feel” familiar to me, that have some definite meaning for me. These are the only ones I bother with when I try to think or talk to people. For some time (after my injury) I began to fight to recover my memory and speaking ability, to understand the meaning of words. I’m still doing this, since my memory is so limited and there always seems to be a gap between a word and its meaning. These two are always disconnected and I have to yoke them together somehow. But I can’t keep them yoked together for any length of time; they come loose and just vanish into thin air.
Sometimes when I take a walk in the field or the woods, I test myself to see what I can remember. It turns out I’ve completely forgotten the names of the trees there. True, I can remember the words oak, pine, aspen, maple, birch, and others sometimes (when they happen to come to mind). But when I look at a particular tree, I don’t know whether it’s an aspen or some other kind, even though the tree looks familiar to me. If someone points out some mushrooms, I can’t remember what they’re called or how they’re used, though I remember the names of different kinds of mushrooms—orange cap, white or brown “edible” type. But I can’t tell whether a particular mushroom is a brown edible type or some other variety, despite the fact that I must have been able to identify them before I was wounded.
I’ve even forgotten what a dandelion is, a flower I knew when I was a child. When it becomes faded, I remember what it is, but until then I just can’t imagine, I have absolutely no idea what flower it is.
Out of habit I tend to see things in my environment in much the same way I did earlier. But when I’m face to face with objects, I don’t really recognize or remember them. I don’t understand how plants grow, what nourishes them, or how you grow a new plant by cutting off a leaf and putting it in water. I don’t understand the essential things about the plants and animals I see, because I can’t remember the names for them or what they mean.
He had not merely forgotten the meaning of words. We have already pointed out that he could not recall a word immediately but had to search actively for it, often finding that other words occurred to him instead—some of them close enough in meaning to what he wanted, but others extremely far removed. How, then, was he to select the right word when his memory was cluttered with words, all of which seemed familiar and correct? Often enough the word he wanted was inaccessible.
My biggest problem was not being able to remember the right words when I wanted to talk. From the time I was wounded, as soon as I could recognize myself again, I’d repeat a word a doctor, nurse, or patient had used but a minute later I had already forgotten it. At that time I couldn’t think of a particular word when I wanted to express something; I just couldn’t remember anything at will.
When I’m sitting or walking in my room and look at things there, they seem familiar and make sense to me. But somehow I can’t name them right away, none of them. I’ll pick up a pencil or point to a table and say: “What’s this called? It’s a . . . it’s a . . . what do you call it? It’s not a lamp . . . not an inkwell . . . it’s a table!”
I can go on struggling like this for several days, writing words down, asking myself questions. But on the whole I still have to sweat over every word. For example, I’ll look at an object and begin questioning myself: “Is it a stove? No. And it’s not smoke . . . or a chimney . . . or a fire . . . torch . . . candle . . . house . . . flame . . . light.” Damn it, I just can’t remember. So I start reciting other words: cat. . . spoon . . . etc., and finally it comes to me. It’s cast iron!
My damaged brain has to “stumble” over a word to find it, and if I don’t want it to slip my mind, I have to detour around the gaps in my memory. But this distracts my attention so that I lose track of other words I’ve just managed to recall. I’ve had any number of embarrassing experiences because I couldn’t think of the words I was looking for. I’m still tormented by this and find it just as agonizing. But I have no intention of giving in. No matter how hard it’s been, I have begun to speak better over the years. That’s enough to encourage me to continue fighting and try to recover enough of my memory so that I can speak better.