Lost time: an unfamiliar world after brain injury
2014; Elsevier BV; Volume: 14; Issue: 4 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1016/s1474-4422(14)70208-x
ISSN1474-4465
Autores Tópico(s)History of Medical Practice
ResumoWho was Corin Redgrave? Coming from an eminent family of actors, his roots were firmly embedded in theatre, but Redgrave was also an outspoken and active member of the Trotskyite Workers' Revolutionary Party. His performances often venerated figures of authority who had views diametrically opposed to his own radical socialist beliefs. He was, however, a highly esteemed character actor, and in role, was not himself. Perhaps this is why, when Redgrave had a heart attack that deprived his brain of oxygen and resulted in brain injury and loss of a whole lifetime of memories, he could return to acting and still perform as well, if not better, than before. Kika Markham, his wife of 25 years reflects on their predicament in her book Our Time of Day: My Life With Corin Redgrave. “I understood that both our lives had disappeared. For what use are memories if they only exist for one person?” Markham writes about her relationship with Corin; before and after the brain injury, both periods were fraught, with substantial incongruities.The first part of the book is about Kika, and then about their life together. Tied by a longstanding family connection, far-left politics, love of travelling, love of theatre, parenting, and friendships, they share a common ethos and experience. In their relationship, there were tensions, periods of grieving, financial concerns, the toll of too much work, not enough work, and plenty of bickering. But an enduring love story prevails without rose-tinted spectacles. The book does not flow like a novel or a biopic. It reads like a journal—colloquial and unpolished—and is scattered with diary entries from both Corin and Kika, and other family and friends. According to Markham it began more as an aide-memoire for him, and this explains the juxtaposition, from her mind to his, and back to hers, intimating a collaboration of sorts.The book develops into what could be a reflective human character study of brain injury. After the heart attack, Corin was never the same again. Kika makes some notes at the first session of Corin's out-patient visit to the Wolfson Neurorehabilitation Centre: “He has no capacity to reflect…he is highly tuned to the emotional dynamic of the situation… his skills are fine-tuned—he reacts but may not understand why. He can feel patronised…He can learn but he doesn't know he has learned it, and he can't access it…the more he understands, the more difficult and upsetting it will be for him.” It is here where she learns that it is not Corin but the family who are in trauma, and it is up to the family to lead his adjustment, by adjusting to it themselves. His conscious memories of past events are out of reach, and without conscious recollection, the question arises of how can we know who we are. Corin writes “I'm not going to remember consciously what happened, but the hope is that I can hold this information as knowledge that I can believe and trust.”Our Time of Day captures the exhaustion, the confusion, the unpreparedness of learning to love someone you have loved already; the same man, but with parts missing, parts changed. It is as if you are standing at completely different junctions, having travelled the same path, you are trying to end up in the same place, so you can share again where you have been. Not only are you a stranger to him, but he is also a stranger to you, you are able to cognitively adapt, because you know why, but emotionally, it is a cruel adjustment to make. Corin is unable to grasp what has happened to him. The reality of brain damage—unpredictable, unrehearsed, immeasurable and infinite—is conveyed. A doctor tells Kika that she “hasn't seen anything yet. You must have the patience of a saint.”When Corin is transferred from the intensive ward to the heart hospital, the mental trauma became increasingly evident. He was prone to paranoia, anguish, restlessness, and unpredictable rage. For Kika a “dreadful bleakness descends”. At one point she has to tell him that his mother died 2 years ago. Corin cries “piteously”, experiencing the grief in one event. Eventually Corin is sectioned and, although not consciously recalled, Kika believes that a deep sorrow was locked inside from this experience, and later unleashed in his acclaimed performance in Oscar Wilde's De Profundis.“Corin is becoming eccentric”. He returns to work, and although successful he is restricted by needing constant supervision. He has moments of complete joy, and other times he is maudlin and depressed. He is disinhibited, highly dependent on alcohol and, physically, his health is deteriorating. They both resent the roles they have been forced to adopt—less equal, less free, confined, rigid, and although desperate to change, they are not sure how. Kika says, “In brain injury I learned: that there are no answers. But they may emerge.” That is what this book conveys—the waiting, but also the living in between.There are also funny anecdotes about those picky traits that cause repetitive arguments, and confessions that many are not prepared to make. Kika divulges an honesty that is impressionable—she is not self-pitying, or saintly, but really just comes across as human. “One of the most painful and addictive habits is thinking about our previous life. Its like picking a scab: you know it will bleed so you shouldn't, but you can't help it….deciding what restaurant to try, what to eat…travelling…acting together, making love; talking…talking just talking…someone to put a plaster on your finger…someone that leaves you beautifully written notes about shopping.” It is only when Corin dies suddenly of an aneurism that she can truly grieve for losing him. Who was Corin Redgrave? Coming from an eminent family of actors, his roots were firmly embedded in theatre, but Redgrave was also an outspoken and active member of the Trotskyite Workers' Revolutionary Party. His performances often venerated figures of authority who had views diametrically opposed to his own radical socialist beliefs. He was, however, a highly esteemed character actor, and in role, was not himself. Perhaps this is why, when Redgrave had a heart attack that deprived his brain of oxygen and resulted in brain injury and loss of a whole lifetime of memories, he could return to acting and still perform as well, if not better, than before. Kika Markham, his wife of 25 years reflects on their predicament in her book Our Time of Day: My Life With Corin Redgrave. “I understood that both our lives had disappeared. For what use are memories if they only exist for one person?” Markham writes about her relationship with Corin; before and after the brain injury, both periods were fraught, with substantial incongruities. The first part of the book is about Kika, and then about their life together. Tied by a longstanding family connection, far-left politics, love of travelling, love of theatre, parenting, and friendships, they share a common ethos and experience. In their relationship, there were tensions, periods of grieving, financial concerns, the toll of too much work, not enough work, and plenty of bickering. But an enduring love story prevails without rose-tinted spectacles. The book does not flow like a novel or a biopic. It reads like a journal—colloquial and unpolished—and is scattered with diary entries from both Corin and Kika, and other family and friends. According to Markham it began more as an aide-memoire for him, and this explains the juxtaposition, from her mind to his, and back to hers, intimating a collaboration of sorts. The book develops into what could be a reflective human character study of brain injury. After the heart attack, Corin was never the same again. Kika makes some notes at the first session of Corin's out-patient visit to the Wolfson Neurorehabilitation Centre: “He has no capacity to reflect…he is highly tuned to the emotional dynamic of the situation… his skills are fine-tuned—he reacts but may not understand why. He can feel patronised…He can learn but he doesn't know he has learned it, and he can't access it…the more he understands, the more difficult and upsetting it will be for him.” It is here where she learns that it is not Corin but the family who are in trauma, and it is up to the family to lead his adjustment, by adjusting to it themselves. His conscious memories of past events are out of reach, and without conscious recollection, the question arises of how can we know who we are. Corin writes “I'm not going to remember consciously what happened, but the hope is that I can hold this information as knowledge that I can believe and trust.” Our Time of Day captures the exhaustion, the confusion, the unpreparedness of learning to love someone you have loved already; the same man, but with parts missing, parts changed. It is as if you are standing at completely different junctions, having travelled the same path, you are trying to end up in the same place, so you can share again where you have been. Not only are you a stranger to him, but he is also a stranger to you, you are able to cognitively adapt, because you know why, but emotionally, it is a cruel adjustment to make. Corin is unable to grasp what has happened to him. The reality of brain damage—unpredictable, unrehearsed, immeasurable and infinite—is conveyed. A doctor tells Kika that she “hasn't seen anything yet. You must have the patience of a saint.” When Corin is transferred from the intensive ward to the heart hospital, the mental trauma became increasingly evident. He was prone to paranoia, anguish, restlessness, and unpredictable rage. For Kika a “dreadful bleakness descends”. At one point she has to tell him that his mother died 2 years ago. Corin cries “piteously”, experiencing the grief in one event. Eventually Corin is sectioned and, although not consciously recalled, Kika believes that a deep sorrow was locked inside from this experience, and later unleashed in his acclaimed performance in Oscar Wilde's De Profundis. “Corin is becoming eccentric”. He returns to work, and although successful he is restricted by needing constant supervision. He has moments of complete joy, and other times he is maudlin and depressed. He is disinhibited, highly dependent on alcohol and, physically, his health is deteriorating. They both resent the roles they have been forced to adopt—less equal, less free, confined, rigid, and although desperate to change, they are not sure how. Kika says, “In brain injury I learned: that there are no answers. But they may emerge.” That is what this book conveys—the waiting, but also the living in between. There are also funny anecdotes about those picky traits that cause repetitive arguments, and confessions that many are not prepared to make. Kika divulges an honesty that is impressionable—she is not self-pitying, or saintly, but really just comes across as human. “One of the most painful and addictive habits is thinking about our previous life. Its like picking a scab: you know it will bleed so you shouldn't, but you can't help it….deciding what restaurant to try, what to eat…travelling…acting together, making love; talking…talking just talking…someone to put a plaster on your finger…someone that leaves you beautifully written notes about shopping.” It is only when Corin dies suddenly of an aneurism that she can truly grieve for losing him.
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