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  Copyright © 2008 by Jill Price

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Price, Jill.

  The woman who can’t forget : the extraordinary story of living with the most remarkable memory known to science / Jill Price with Bart Davis.

  p. cm.

  Includes bibliographical references (p. ).

  1. Price, Jill, 1965–. 2. Long-term memory—Biography. 3. Memory disorders—

  Patients—California—Biography. I. Davis, Bart, 1950–. II. Title.

  BF378.L65P75 2008

  153.1'2092—dc22

  [B] 2008004257

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-6252-8

  ISBN-10: 1-4165-6252-4

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  This book is dedicated to the three people who

  know me best and I love the most:

  my mother Roz, my father Lenny, and my brother Michael

  and

  To my husband Jim, who made life beautiful and

  bearable for me. I love and miss you.

  …and Walter

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  CHAPTER 1: Alone with My Memory

  CHAPTER 2: The Gift of Forgetting

  CHAPTER 3: When I Was a Child

  CHAPTER 4: The Remains of the Days

  CHAPTER 5: The Stuff Our Selves Are Made Of

  CHAPTER 6: An Archaeology of Time

  CHAPTER 7: Speaking Memories

  CHAPTER 8: A Window Opens

  CHAPTER 9: Beginning Again

  CHAPTER 10: The Memory as Memorial

  Epilogue

  Glossary

  Notes

  Acknowledgments

  PROLOGUE

  The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so obedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so tyrannic, so beyond control!

  —Fanny Price, in Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park

  I know very well how tyrannical the memory can be. I have the first diagnosed case of a memory condition that the scientists who have studied me termed hyperthymestic syndrome—the continuous, automatic autobiographical recall of every day of my life from when I was age fourteen on. My memory started to become shockingly complete in 1974, when I was eight years old. From 1980 on, it is near perfect. Give me a date from that year forward and I can instantly tell you what day of the week it was, what I did on that day, and any major event that took place—or even minor events—as long as I heard about them on that day.

  My memories are like scenes from home movies of every day of my life, constantly playing in my head, flashing forward and backward through the years relentlessly, taking me to any given moment, entirely of their own volition. Imagine if someone had made videos of you from the time you were a child, following you around all day, day by day, and then combined them all onto one DVD, and you sat in a room and watched that DVD on a machine set to shuffle randomly through all the tracks. There you are as a ten-year-old in your family room watching The Brady Bunch; then you’re whisked off to a scene of you at seventeen driving around town with your best friends; and before long you’re on the beach during a family vacation when you were three. That’s how I experience my memories. I never know what I might remember next, and my recall is so vivid and true to life that it’s as though I’m actually reliving the days, for good and for bad.

  I can recall memories at will when I’m asked to, but on a regular basis my remembering is automatic. I don’t make any effort to call memories up; they just fill my mind. In fact, they’re not under my conscious control, and much as I’d like to, I can’t stop them. They will pop into my head, maybe triggered by someone mentioning a date or a name, or I’ll hear a song on the radio, and whether I want to return to a particular time or not, my mind is off and running right to that moment. My recall doesn’t stop there, with one memory; it rushes from one to a next and a next, flipping wildly through days as though they’re cards in a Rolodex.

  As I grew up and more and more memories were stored in my brain, more and more of them flashed through my mind in this endless barrage, and I became a prisoner to my memory. The emotional stress of the rush of memories was compounded by the fact that because my memory worked so differently from the norm, it was incredibly difficult to explain to anyone else what was going on in my mind. I had a condition that had never before been diagnosed, and as much as I would try to explain how my memories assaulted me, my parents couldn’t really grasp the nature of what was happening.

  My mother would tell me not to dwell on things so much, and I’d try to explain that I wasn’t dwelling, that the memories just flooded my mind. But that didn’t make any sense to her. Nobody could understand, including me, and in time I was so frustrated by trying to describe the experience that I simply gave up and began keeping it almost entirely to myself.

  Though I hate the idea of losing any of my memories, it’s also true that learning how to manage a life in the present with so much of the past continually replaying itself in my mind has been quite a challenge, often a debilitating one. I have struggled through many difficult episodes of being emotionally overwhelmed by my memory through the course of my life. Then finally I decided I had to reach out and try to discover whatever I could about what was going on in my head and why. By a stroke of what now seems to me divine providence, I went online and did a search for “memory,” and to my great good fortune, the first entry that came up was to Dr. James McGaugh, a leading memory researcher affiliated with the University of California at Irvine (UCI).

  I had been sure that my search would send me to some Web site all about memory and that I’d read about other people like me. Little did I know just how unusual my condition is. Though nothing on the Web could explain my memory, the next best thing it could have done was to take me to Dr. McGaugh. He is one of the foremost memory experts in the world and the author of over 500 scientific papers on human memory. His list of awards and honors was impressive, and I saw that he had lectured at a host of universities and institutions around the world. I can’t say that I understood much of what I read about his work—the titles of the papers alone were daunting—but as soon as I found him, I thought, “This is the man who’s going to tell me what’s going on.”

  Even so, I felt some trepidation about contacting him. Would he be interested in me? Would he have time for me? I would be contacting him out of the blue, and he was clearly a very busy man. It took me three days to compose an e-mail to him, but at last, on June 8, 2000, I sent it off:

  Dear Dr. McGaugh,

  As I sit here trying to figure out where to begin explaining why I am writing you and your colleague, I just hope somehow you can help me. I am thirty-four years old and since I was eleven I have had this unbelievable ability to recall my past. I can take a date, between 1974 and today, and tell you what day it falls on, what I was doing that day and if anything of great importance occurred on that day. Whenever I see a date flash on the television I automatically go back to that day and remember where I was and what I was doing. It is non-stop, uncontrollable, and totally exhausting….

  Amazingly, he responded within 90 minutes, saying that if I lived anywhere close to UCI, he would be interest
ed in meeting with me. That was a watershed moment in my life. How fortunate that I lived right up the highway from him, only an hour away in Los Angeles.

  Though I was nervous and even scared about reaching out to the scientific community, the clarification and validation the scientists have given me about how my memory works, and that it is so unusual, has been a source of significant comfort. I am also greatly heartened to have learned that it turns out that the ways in which my memory is so different shed a good deal of light on many important mysteries about memory—and also about forgetting. My hope now is that the study of my memory will not only hold answers to long-standing questions about how normal human memory works but may lead to significant findings about the tragic disorders of memory loss.

  The work I’ve done with Dr. McGaugh and his team has already helped me to see not only my own life in new terms, but also the lives of others and how memory plays such a powerful role in everyone’s life. I’ve realized with more clarity, as I’ve reflected on my life in the process of writing this book and been exposed to findings in a broad range of memory science, just how profoundly our memories assist in constructing our sense of who we are and of the meaning of our lives. Whereas people generally create narratives of their lives that are fashioned by a process of selective remembering and an enormous amount of forgetting, and continually recraft that narrative through the course of life, I have not been able to do so. I came to realize in a flash of insight one day that whereas memory generally contributes to the construction of our sense of self, in my case, in so many ways my memory is my sense of self.

  I do have a storehouse of memories that are more important to me than others and that I travel to often in my mind for comfort and as a refuge, but I have all the other days there too, impressing themselves on me all the time. It’s as though I have all of my prior selves still inside me, the self I was on every day of my life, like her or not, nested as in a Russian doll—inside today’s Jill are complete replicas of yesterday’s Jill and the Jills for all the days stretching so far back in time. In that sense, I don’t so much have a story of my self as I have a remarkably detailed memory of my self. Paring that down to cut out the mass of daily events and focus on the ways in which my memory has operated and has shaped my life has been a strange, sometimes mind-boggling experience, but one for which I am grateful because it has given me more clarity about the forces that have shaped my life.

  I have always been a private person, and the decision to venture into the open about my memory was wrenching for me. But I’ve decided to tell the story of my journey because my work with the scientists has helped me to understand so much better that the way my memory works can throw useful light on what memory means in everyone’s lives.

  My greatest hope is that eventually scientists will discover something about my brain that will help solve the riddles of the tragic disorders of memory loss. The scientists have already determined from the scans of my brain that there are pronounced structural differences that probably account for why my memory is so complete and so relentless. I’ve learned from them how many mysteries about memory they’re still grappling with, and it does seem that what they’ve learned about my brain and memory will lead to fruitful research. For now, I hope that my story is illuminating and thought provoking for readers; and helps explain the role of memory in all of our lives—as well as that of forgetting—and how our memories to such a significant degree make us who we are.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Alone with My Memory

  You have to begin to lose your memory, if only in bits and pieces, to realize that memory makes our lives. Life without memory is no life at all…. Our memory is our coherence, our reason, our feeling, even our action. Without it, we are nothing.

  —Luis Buñuel, Memoirs

  Why is it that solitary confinement, without labor, is regarded as the severest form of imprisonment? It is because the lonely victim can find nothing to do but to remember. And this incessant remembering has often proved more than the mind could bear.

  —Reverend D. B. Coe, The Memory of the Lost

  Time has one fundamental principle: it moves forward. We go from birth to death, from first to last. We are young before we grow old, stimulus always precedes response, and there is no return to yesterday. The sole exception is memory. For me, because of the way my memory works, not only do I often return to yesterday, I can never escape it. I live with a constant, un-stoppable parade of the yesterdays of my life flashing furiously through my mind.

  Give me a date, and I will travel right to some particular moment of that day and tell you what I was doing, as well as what day of the week it was and any major event that happened that day, as long as I heard about it then, in addition to certain events that pop into my mind that happened around the same time. November 14, 1981, a Saturday: My dad’s forty-fifth birthday. That night a school group I was joining, the Rasonians, was initiating new members and taking us out in Westwood. July 18, 1984, a Wednesday: A quiet summer day. I picked up the book Helter Skelter and read it for the second time. In ten days, Saturday, July 28, Los Angeles would be hosting the Summer Olympics. February 14, 1998, a Saturday: I was working as a researcher on a television special and went into work to pick clips, a job I loved because I’m a TV fanatic.

  My recall also works the other way: if you ask me about an event, again from 1980 onward, as long as I heard about it, I can give you the date and day of the week it happened, and related information. The end of the FBI

  siege on the Branch Davidian compound: Monday, April 19, 1993. It began on Sunday, February 28, 1993, two days after the World Trade Center bombing on Friday, February 26, 1993. The final episode of MASH airs: Monday, February 28, 1983. It was raining that day and the next day when I was driving my car, the windshield wipers stopped working. The nuclear reactor in Chernobyl melts

  down: Saturday, April 26, 1986. I was visiting friends in Phoenix. The day the Chinese army brutally suppressed pro

  tests in Tiananmen Square: Sunday, June 4, 1989. My aunt Pauline had just passed away, so we were taking my grandmother, her sister, to lunch at Eddie Saul’s Deli to break the news to her.

  This ability to automatically recall not only dates but also days of the week for events, and then to flip that and recall events for dates, was the feature of my memory that initially startled Dr. McGaugh, because it was unique in the annals of memory research.

  That first day I met him—Saturday, June 24, 2000—automatic recall was the kind of test that he gave me. I was excited driving down from Los Angeles to meet him at the research complex at UCI. Though I was desperately hoping that Dr. McGaugh would be able to tell me why my memory works the way it does, I was also a bit unnerved about what I might learn. Who knew what odd brain condition I might have? I had also kept so much to myself for so long about how insistent my memories were, and how they ruled my life, that the concept of disclosing to a complete stranger the weird phenomenon that was raging in my mind was disconcerting. I felt that I’d be exposing my innermost self—a self that I had not even truly revealed to my family and friends because I hadn’t known how to make them understand. But I just had to know, finally, what was going on in my head, and my excitement about Dr. McGaugh having agreed to meet with me far outweighed my trepidation.

  As I walked up to the research building, there he was, waiting outside for me, and from the moment he greeted me, he put me at ease. First, he gave me a simple test, which was the beginning of a process of discovery that has changed my life in so many ways.

  We went up to his lab, and he had a big reference book lying on the table we sat down at—The 20th Century Day

  by Day. He pulled two lists out of the book that he had prepared from it. One was of historically important events occurring during the past thirty years—roughly the period of my strong memory—and the other was a list of dates. He started with the list of dates and asked me to tell him what event had happened on each.

  The first date on the list wa
s November 5, 1979, and I immediately told him it was a Monday but that I didn’t know what happened on that day. On the day before, though, on November 4 of that year, I said, the Iranian students had invaded the U.S. embassy in Tehran and taken the hostages whom they held for 444 days. He shook his head and said, no, that happened on the fifth. I told him I was sure it had happened on November 4, and because I was so adamant, he decided to check another source.

  When it turned out that I was right and the book was wrong, I could see that Dr. McGaugh was stunned. I was right about all of the other dates on the list too. Then he quizzed me about the second list, which was of events, asking me to give him the date they happened. I got every one of those right too, and as Dr. McGaugh explained to me, one of the things that surprised him the most was how automatic my answers were. He was intrigued that I was clearly not actively trying to recall the answers; they were just there for immediate access. The complete lists, with the answers I gave, as they were reproduced in the paper Dr. McGaugh wrote about me years later, were as follows. Note that in the scientific paper, the scientists referred to me as AJ, in the tradition of preserving the anonymity of subjects of research:

  ANSWERS (EVENTS) AJ GAVE TO DATES

  ANSWERS (DATES) AJ GAVE TO EVENTS

  When I explained to him that I could also report my recollection of what I was doing personally on those dates, he was intrigued and asked me to write those recollections down. I did so in about fifteen minutes. Some of the events of those days I’d rather not refer to, and in the paper and here as well, we just indicated that they were personal:

  Monday, September 25, 1978: It was my grandmother’s birthday and I had just started the 8th grade. The plane crash was a PSA flight over San Diego. A member of our Temple was on that flight.