The curse of hyperthymesia

A wicked line drive bounced off my head a few years ago.

Knocked me out cold.

I woke in an ambulance with a nuclear headache.

On the way home from the emergency room, I remembered every experience I ever had, including my prenatal life. For example, from 12:07 to 12:44 PM on the second Monday of March 1975, I ate in the college cafeteria with Kevin Ward and Dave Muellerleile. I had a ham sandwich and chips. Kevin also had a ham sandwich (no chips, and Dave had the meatloaf. It snowed in the morning, and I had a quiz in intermediate accounting. I could keep going, but you get the point.

The most fascinating aspect of the new me involves the time before I was born.

The authorities sat me down for my pre-birth meeting. They gave me a list of the things I would be good at and the stuff I would suck at. After reviewing the first list, I realized I would be average at best—average intelligence, average athlete, average emotional control, average- average- average.

The other side of the ledger was lengthy. I would never be a singer, a quick reader, a dancer, a musician, a card player, or many other things.

I thought, OK, there are better deals, but there you go.

The list included one thing at which I would be the best in the world.

The authorities explained that everyone receives one unique talent that exceeds all humans. Now, 99.999% of our gifts are useless.

I have asked friends and family about their gifts.

Paul asserts he always selects the right-sized piece of Tupperware when storing leftover soup. Ryan said he can stop the gas pump at an even dollar amount every time he fills up. My sister, Margaret, claims she can wake up in the middle of the night from a deep sleep and know the time within a five-minute range.

These are all semi-valuable skills.

However, my rare talent is useless. I can hold four ounces of water in my cupped hands for over five minutes. Then, I can squirt it into someone’s eye from fifteen feet away. Ask my sons. They know.

That’s all I will say about special aptitudes.

During my pre-birth debriefing, the authorities said I would be the only son of professional surfers who live on Maui. I thought, great, call me “Moondoggie.”

In the delivery room, wires were crossed - mistakes were made.

Right before I was about to head out, a nurse said, “Can you believe how bad the Bears were this season?”

Another attendant said, “This is the worst ice storm I remember.”

Finally, someone asked, “Mrs. Smith, how many children do you have?” She replied, “I have three sons and two daughters.”

I thought, damm. What about being the only child of surfers in Maui? Instead, I would be one of six children. I would live in Illinois. I wouldn’t be Moondoggie. I would be Buddy, Buzz, or Booger.

What happened next is not my proudest moment. I turned around and tried to claw my way back.

My mother and I almost died.

Please forgive me, Mom. I was just a baby and didn’t know better.