Richard K. Baer - A Life in Pieces: The harrowing story of a woman with 17 personalities

The nurse kept calling me Karen, so I thought that must bemy name. I knew I was in the hospital, but I didn't know why. I hadbandages over my abdomen and my chest hurt when I breathed. I layin the bed for a whilequiet, frightened, and feeling alone in a worldI couldn't explain. I was afraid I'd lost my mind.

I was transferred to another room. I figured I must have given birthbecause of the bandages on my abdomen and all the mothers and newbornson the floor. A nurse came in and looked under the bandage.There was a six-inch scar, just above my pubic bone, that, with thestitches, looked like an angry smile.

A man came in, tall and skinny, smelling of beer, with a goofy smileand a crew cut, and told me we'd just had a baby girl. I smiled backat him. He must be the father, I thought, but I had no idea who he was.

"Karen, we have our beautiful Sara," he said. "When are you cominghome?"

I didn't know where home was, or who else might be there.

"You'll need to ask the doctors," I said, smiling weakly. "Sara isher name?"

"Sara, of course!" he said. "Did you change your mind?"

"Oh, no, Sara is beautiful," I said. I was so muddled and scared,but I thought I should keep all this confusion secret. How could I askthis man, Who are you? They'd say I was crazy, I thought. I hoped Iwasn't. I was sure if they found out I couldn't remember anything,they'd lock me away.

I began to recall images from before the birthbeing pushed alonga green corridor toward the elevator, the water pipes careening alongthe ceiling, and glancing at the talking, upside-down faces above me. Iremember the nurses strapping me downfirst my legs, then my arms.A memory triggered.... I can't move! Please don't hurt me! I struggledagainst the straps. I couldn't see the doctor past the drapes. He waspoised over my belly, then I felt his surgeon's knife, and a fire searedinto my belly.

I kicked with my legs and tried to scream, but no sound came. Mymouth was sour and rancid, and my throat was filled with vomit. Igasped for breath. The doctor saw my legs move and barked somethingto the nurse. A mask was put over my face. Then I disappeared.

During the first few days after Sara's birth, I learned I had a two-year-old son at home, James, who had wavy blond hair and the bluesteyes I'd ever seen. I saw him in a picture my mother brought. I figuredit was my mother. She talked about what she went through when shegave birth to me. "You were the first; you were the hardest. I was inlabor forever with you. We didn't have all the fancy pain medicine youhave now. I remember how much you tore me up and all the stitches Ihad." She didn't really let me speak; all I needed to do was listen. Aftera while, I became annoyed by this woman who dressed in gaudy animalprints and always turned the conversation toward herself. Herhusband, Martin, my father, was a big, grim, brooding man whostopped in briefly, asked how I was doing but didn't wait for an answer.After watching my television for a few minutes, he left.

Strangely, I accepted these newly discovered facts about myself andmy family without alarm or surprise. Although it was all bewildering,I vaguely sensed I'd been in similar situations before. It felt familiar topretend and gather information about what I couldn't remember, andsomehow I knew it was best to keep my mouth shut.

Sometimes when my family visited, I pretended to be asleep so Icould overhear their conversations and secretly familiarize myself withmy husband, my brothers, their families, and our friends. I heard mymother call my husband Josh, and him call her Katrina.

Josh worked as a foreman at a moving company. He made surethe trucks got loaded with the correct cargo and left on time. He camein to visit during lunch sometimes, but visiting was hard for him withgoing to work and taking care of our son.

My hospital stay was extended because whenever I took a deepbreath, I had a shooting, stabbing pain along the entire right side of mychest. Eventually my internist told me I had "aspiration pneumonia"from inhaling vomit during my C-section. I went on intravenousantibiotics and stayed in the hospital for three more weeks.

My fever went up and down, but never fully returned to normal. Later,a surgeon was called in. I finally had an operation where they took outpart of my right lung because the doctors said I'd formed an "abscess."There were periods of time while I was in the hospital for which I couldn'taccount; I think I may have been in a coma off and on.

Once I got home, although my right side continually ached, Iworked to understand the person I was supposed to be. People calledand visited to see the new baby. I'd talk in generalities until I couldglean from the other person the nature of our relationship. I pored overthe many photo albums I found; it was as if somebody had left themthere for me. I studied each page and found much detail written belowthe pictures. Gradually, I became the person in the pictures.

My husband grew increasingly mean: yelling at me because I'dstayed in the hospital for six weeks and wasn't able to help at home.He cursed me when my pain and fatigue limited what I could doaround the house. I didn't want to have sex with Josh; I didn't evenknow him, so instead I complained about the pain in my side. Worst