I awoke with an intense pain in my neck and a pounding headache. As I stand up from the bed, my eyes follow the smears of dried blood on the chest of my shirt. My reflection catch’s my attention in the bedroom vanity. Bruises align my face to my collarbone.

I audibly gasp and the man that I did not notice in the bed bed sits up, rubbing his eyes. Panicking, I quietly shuffle into the bathroom down the hallway, I close and lock the door.

I don’t know where I am or whose house I am in. A knock on the door makes me squeal and I freeze, unable to make any response.

“Are you okay?” A man asks. “I waited for you to come home last night. Your phone was off and I was worrying like hell.”

What does he mean by “come home”? My mind begins brainstorming justification as to why I’m in this strangers house. The bedroom looked very feminine. Maybe he is mistaken me for his girlfriend?

I open the door and the man looks at me like he has seen a ghost. We stand within a foot of each other without a word before he wraps his arms around me with a loud sob.

“What happened to you last night? I need to take you to a hospital!”

Agreeing that I need medical help, I follow the stranger to his Honda.

Walking to the rdesk in the Emergency Room, still covered in blood, the receptionist asks me for my name with wide eyes.

I hesitate, realizing I don’t know my name.

“I don’t know,” I say as a matter of fact.

The man behind me reaches for my shoulder with a surprise on his face.

“Her name is Madeline.”

He knows me. I tell him I don’t know who he is or what is happening and he orders me to sit down in the waiting room. I can faintly hear him talk to the receptionist.

“Her name is Madeline. She came home late last night after a girls night out. I don’t know why she doesn’t remember her name. She looks like she was mugged and has a concussion.”

I didn’t wait long to be ushered back to a room in a wheelchair. A nurse asks me to confirm my name and wraps a “fall risk” bracelet around my wrist.

“Do you know where you are?” She asks with a concerning tone.

I deny knowing where I am or my name.

“What month is it?” She continues to ask questions.

“March.” I respond.

The man perks up from his chair, “Honey it’s February.”

The nurse asks me what year it is and I answer “2012”.

The nurse corrects me, “Darling it is 2013. Worst case scenario, you must have suffered a brain injury but with time your memory will resurface.”

She shines a light into my eyes and explains that I will undergo tests by the doctors orders to find evidence of a concussion. Explaining that intense amnesia is usually not related to a brain injury, she consoles me that I will be taken care of.

Hours later I am greeted by a man who introduces himself as a neurologist. His face is solemn as he explains my scans have shown severe brain death in my hippocampus. I lower my gaze in disbelief and focus on the ring on my finger. The doctor continues to explain to what I assume is my husband that I will be admitted for observation.