Like a virgin

Having sex for the first time after amnesia was like the real first time, but without Journey playing in the background.

By Cole Kazdin

July 7, 2004 | I have always loved to be kissed gently on the neck, to lie in someone's arms, to be made mad passionate love to -- at least I think I've always loved those things. That's what I'm told.

Things got confusing once I suffered a head trauma that brought on amnesia. Having sex after having amnesia was like losing my virginity all over again, except without the awkwardness and ineptitude of the real first time. And without Journey playing in the background.

In November 2001, I was seriously injured on the set of a low-rent TV pilot. The details of the incident are another story altogether, but suffice it to say that the show's producers have secured a spot in that special room in hell otherwise reserved for the creators of "The Swan."

I was left with an immobilizing back injury and -- even more immobilizing -- amnesia. I had always chuckled at the use of amnesia as a narrative device in films and soap operas -- it always seemed a little contrived and unrealistic. My own experience was a combination of short- and long-term amnesia -- I didn't know my history and I often wasn't aware of what was happening moment to moment.

Not having memory made me a blank slate. Without memory of my experiences and opinions, I had nothing to base any feelings on. I could be a Republican and not even know it.

"She's a vegetarian!" one of my best friends screamed as she stormed into my bedroom, Paul Revere-like. "Don't let her eat any meat!" she told Eric, my boyfriend of almost a year. No worries. I was lying in bed virtually comatose, anyway.

I knew some things. I knew Eric was my boyfriend, but I was admittedly indifferent to the fact. When someone told me something, the fact itself would come back to me, but without any emotion or attachment. When my friend told me I was a vegetarian, I thought: Oh, right, OK. I remembered the fact at that time, but not the feelings behind it. I might as well have been eating veal. I could care less.

Eric slept next to me that night and it was strange. Who was this guy? And isn't it a little presumptuous of him to be hopping into my bed? Did he love me? Did I love him? What if we had had a giant fight the day before my accident -- would I have known?

The next morning, he showed me pictures of a recent trip we took to Los Angeles to jog my memory -- and perhaps to make a case for the fact that we were actually a couple (though you can do amazing things in Photoshop now). Eric and Cole at the beach, Eric and Cole at Mann's Chinese Theater, Eric and Cole on the Ferris wheel at the Santa Monica Pier.

I didn't understand the way he looked at me as I recuperated in the bed day after day. His expression was one of enormous concern and affection. Sometimes he had tears in his eyes. Why are you doing this? I wanted to ask. Why are you feeding me and taking me to doctor's appointments and keeping my family posted and giving me my many medications?

And what was he getting out of it? Barely companionship. No dates, no great conversation or clever banter. How long do you hang around Sunny von Bulow in a Lifetime Original Movie before you bail?

Sex was out of the question, of course. Physically, there was no way I could participate. Even the slightest movement caused me tremendous pain.

After a few weeks I started to become more coherent. Though my short-term memory was still shaky -- a lot of "Did I just take my meds?" moments right after taking them -- my long-term memory was coming back. I was still in a lot of pain, but with medication and physical therapy and time, the healing process was beginning. Now, in bed at night, Eric could hold me. We could kiss and, like teenagers, we eventually graduated to light makeout.

I had forgotten what it was like to be touched, so every sensation felt like something I had never experienced before. I could become consumed with even the simplest kiss as I was discovering what it was like to express love physically. I was still confused a lot of the time and didn't remember much. Had Eric been less sensitive, I'm sure he could have used it to his advantage ("Cole, you always used to love unprotected anal sex -- trust me"). Instead, he was very patient and sweet and hesitant for us to do anything physical. Once we got to second base, then third, we stayed there for quite some time.

"I didn't want you to do anything that was going to cause you pain," Eric told me a few years later.

Next page: Would sex come back to me instinctively?