18 Years of Silence Ends in Family’s Joy : Maryland: Carol Goldman hit her head, had a seizure and stopped talking. But suddenly and inexplicably, she regained her verbal ability.

Bea and Jack Goldman used to talk to their daughter every Sunday at a home for the mentally retarded. Those conversations abruptly stopped 18 years ago when Carol Goldman had a seizure, hit her head and stopped talking.

Until this month.

“I held up one finger and I said, ‘What is this?’ She said, ‘One,’ ” said Bea Goldman, who had raced to her daughter’s room after a therapist told her Carol had spoken.

“I said, ‘Who am I?’ and she said, ‘Mom.’ It was like the blood rushed out of my head. I pointed to him (Jack) and she said, ‘Dad.’

“We went bananas!”

Carol, 42, learned to walk and talk, to dress herself and make her bed, but never read above a fourth-grade level.

Carol was living at a home for the retarded in Albany, N.Y., when she suffered the seizure. After three months in a coma, she was transferred to the Western Maryland Center, a state-run hospital for rehabilitative and chronically ill patients.

Over time, she became more responsive.

“She could shake her head yes or no, point to words on a communication board,” Goldman said. “We knew she had memory because we would ask her questions about the family, but she never spoke a word.”

But no one was prepared for her to begin speaking again after 18 years.

“Although rare, there have been previous cases where sudden improvement has occurred, but it is very unusual,” said Dr. Carl Fischer, administrator at Western Maryland Center.

Ron Pike, director of social work at the center, said doctors can’t explain Carol’s progress. He suspects that changes in medication might be responsible, but said doctors have no definitive explanation and do not know if she will continue to talk.

“It’s just incredible. Nobody can figure out why. It’s just a miracle,” said Bea Goldman, the corners of her eyes moist with tears. “God has had a hand in this. There is no question.”

The Goldmans, now in their 70s, have visited their daughter from their home in Silver Spring twice a week for 18 years and have grown close to the employees.

Carol still doesn’t do a lot of speaking. When asked why it took her so long to speak, she simply answered: “I don’t know.”

She is more accustomed to responding to questions--”What is your favorite color?” “What kind of ice cream do you like?”--than initiating conversation.

After gulping down a lunch of crab cakes and sweet potatoes, Carol did, however, sing a song with her father:

You’re the end of my rainbow.

You’re my pot of gold.

You’re Daddy’s little girl to have and to hold. . . .

You’re sugar and spice and everything nice.

Then Carol finished the song alone:

And you’re Daddy’s little girl.

“I never thought I’d live to hear that,” her father whispered.