The Man Who Remembered Nothing

There’s a movie called “Memento” that tells the fractured story of a man who can’t recognize his own life; every 15 minutes, his memory is erased and he must reestablish his world all over again. Critics praised the film for its unique narrative, but they’re wrong. Fourteen years ago, it could have been my autobiography.

My doctors never figured out exactly how I contracted the disease, but as best as anyone can tell, I was bitten by a mosquito in 1988 and nearly died. The diagnosis was viral meningoencephalitis, a severe and often deadly brain infection. I was in a coma for four days and had a seizure after the first 48 hours.

When I left the hospital after two weeks, my memory was in the same state as a credit card after a run-in with a refrigerator magnet. I had lost the ability to recall anything outside of my own name and that of my wife and young son. But I was in no position to sit in bed and pore over flashcards. My wife was six months pregnant. We had no insurance, no savings. We also would have nowhere to live in a few weeks since we had just sold our home to buy an expensive new one.

I was a former actor and agent who ran my own business, consulting international film distributors who valued my knowledge of top producers, bankers and studio chiefs. With my matchmaking talents reduced to occasionally remembering where I kept my coffee mug, I was singularly unsuited for the job.

In case I had any doubt, I made the mistake of allowing one business associate to see me in the hospital--an Australian distributor whom I considered a family friend. When he canceled our contract shortly thereafter, it was easy to extrapolate that letting the industry know I was ill would have generated outpourings of sympathy and brought an end to my career.

That would have been fine with my doctors, who told me that work was out of the question.

Nonetheless, I asked my wife if I could try. She agreed, and we signed for the new house.

I was convinced that the best chance of supporting my family would come through an old job skill: I would act the role of a successful Hollywood businessman. The only problem was that I couldn’t remember my lines. I could recall nothing from one minute to the next and was forced to constantly write down names, places and other details on scraps of paper, in notebooks, even in the palm of my hand so that the words would make sense the next time I looked at them. They rarely did.

A day at the office was a nightmarish ride of panic attacks alternating with utter blankness. Each time the phone rang, my assistant would have to vamp for time as I desperately rifled through my notes, hoping to identify the caller. Finally I would pick up, praying that whoever it was wasn’t returning a call--because I didn’t remember making it.

I felt like a detective who was trying to piece his life together even as it unfolded. Two friends kept me on the trail: my wife and my lawyer. They allowed me to ignore my doctors’ advice while keeping my secret and preventing anyone else from learning it. My attorney also oversaw my work to ensure that I served my clients well between memory lapses. I couldn’t remember his name either.

Two weeks after I got out of the hospital, my business required me to close a deal with a Japanese company. They told me I could only sign the contract at the Milan film market. Over the next month, my lawyer tried to draw the line, telling me that it was madness to even consider the trip. I had lost 25 pounds and still spent 12 hours a day in bed. It didn’t matter. If I didn’t go, there would be no deal. I was going.

Finally he said, “So when and where is this market?”

“Italy, soon,” I said, pleased that I could tell him something.

“Who is this company?”

I couldn’t remember.

“Fine,” he said. “I’m coming with you.”

With the excuse that he wanted to go to Italy to buy an Armani jacket wholesale, he left his firm for a week to fly with me to Milan. Once there, my attorney posed as my secretary, constantly prompting me on the names of friends and clients, taking notes and reading contracts, none of which I was capable of doing myself. As I stood by, glassy-eyed, he said I was fine, really, just had a touch of the flu. We closed the deal with the Japanese company. In the end, he didn’t even get to buy his jacket; we were forced to make a hasty exit from the designer’s showroom when I suddenly had to run outside to throw up.

You can never repay someone for helping you regain your world, but I managed to make a small down payment in 1990. One morning he collapsed in the lobby of our gym with a massive heart attack, and I drove like hell to get him to Cedars-Sinai. A week later, he became the recipient of an emergency heart transplant. If anything, having a heart donor has only let him experience the same gratitude I have for him.

It has been more than a decade since I was ill. I have rebuilt my memory and my consulting business thrives. I am thinner than I once was; so be it. I have my happy ending: My name is Gordon Steel. I have two sons, James and Andrew. Their godfather is Jerry Edelstein, my best friend and lawyer. We go to the gym every Saturday.