I woke up to the incessant beeping of a machine, which seemed to be doing a pretty solid impression of an overly enthusiastic metronome. Seriously, did I oversleep my entire life?
I peeled my eyes open, I was greeted by the grandeur of white ceilings and walls that could give even the North Pole a run for its money. Note to self: if this is heaven, it desperately needs a redecoration.
My first observation? There was something lodged in my mouth that felt like the rejected prototype of a garden hose. And the air that entered my lungs had clearly spent some quality time with a snowman before reaching me. Chilly, to say the least.
With the determination of someone attempting to lift Mjölnir, I pushed myself to sit up. Or at least that was the plan. In reality, it felt like my head was competing in a heavyweight boxing match and my legs were trying out their new career as lifeless noodles. Round one, and I was losing. Miserably.
All the while, I was wrestling with the existential question: "Am I dead or just horribly out of shape?"
In a final act of defiance against gravity, I attempted to wiggle my legs. Let's just say my legs had a different opinion and decided to ghost me. Hello, not-my-legs, my old friends.
Just when I thought my one-person slapstick comedy show couldn't get any better, a handsome, yet thoroughly puzzled, guy appeared before me. You know, the type of guy who looks like he could star in a shampoo commercial even while solving advanced calculus problems in his head. I recognized him, but his name seemed to be stuck in traffic on the information highway.
His expression was pure gold, though. Shock and joy seemed to be doing the tango on his face, like they couldn't quite agree on their moves. "Sidney! Oh my coding deities, Sidney, you're finally awake! Thank the digital heavens!" He looked like he was about to hug me, high-five me, and dance a jig all at once.
He knew me. I mean, I think I knew him too, but it was like trying to catch a slippery eel in a bowl of greased water. It felt like there was this really important guy-shaped puzzle piece missing from my mental jigsaw. Who was he?
Then, like a superhero with a malfunctioning memory, I decided to drop the ultimate bombshell on him. "By the way, who are you?"
Cue the dramatic music and shocked gasps. His expression went from puzzled to absolutely horrified, like I had just broken the news that Wi-Fi had been canceled indefinitely. He blinked at me, frozen in time like a deer caught in headlights, before his brain finally rebooted and he managed to stammer, "I-I'm calling the doctor!"
Oh, the plot thickens. Now he's calling the doctor like I'm some sort of memory-impaired alien life form. Wait, maybe I am?
With all the gusto of a drama queen trying to win an Oscar, he exited the room and re-entered with a doctor who looked like he had just come from a masterclass on how to look distinguished in a white coat.
The doctor examined me, probably trying to figure out if I was just a really elaborate prank. And then he turned to the bewildered guy, who I would now affectionately refer to as Mr. Panic Mode.
"Head injuries can lead to confusion and issues with memory retention, especially after a concussion. It's like your brain's way of saying, 'Oops, did I save that file or accidentally delete it?' It's not uncommon for traumatic amnesia to set in during the initial stages of recovery," I eavesdropped on the doctor, feeling like I was watching an episode of "Diagnose Me, Doc."
"We'll be keeping an eye on her. Right now, she needs her beauty sleep. Later on, we'll work on helping her remember things. But gently, like trying to convince your cat that wearing a shark costume is a great idea," the doctor continued, with a seemingly serious expression that I suspect he practices in the mirror.
Mr. Panic Mode, a.k.a. "Carson," had transformed into a human roller coaster of emotions, probably more dramatic than my own Oscar-worthy performance. He came back to my side, looking like he had just survived an emotional tornado.
He sat at the edge of the bed, his face a roller coaster of emotion. "How did we end up here, Sidney?"
The million-dollar question, my friend.
I decided to cut the suspense and asked the real kicker, "So, who's been the star of this memory loss spectacle?"
Carson's face transformed from puzzled to horrified to the expression of someone who had just accidentally deleted their entire hard drive. He seemed to struggle to process my question, his expression oscillating between shock and disbelief. "Uh, I'm, uh, Carson. Your pal. You've been in a coma for two months."
Two months? Did I just pull off the Rip Van Winkle of the century?
"Our little escapade brought us to Tagaytay that fateful night, after you escaped the clutches of LOVESTRUCK. I was off fetching you coffee," he said, as if trying to recount a crazy dream he had last night.
I strained to jog my memory, I was met with a brick wall. My brain was playing hide-and-seek with itself. But hey, at least I was still managing to ace the "Blank Stare 101" course.
"Then, out of nowhere, a Formula 1 car impersonating a regular car decided to make our car its BFF by crashing into it. You've been in critical condition for what feels like a century, and we've all been holding a vigil that even Game of Thrones would envy."
"Wait, 'we'?"
Carson shifted like he was preparing to spill the juiciest gossip of the century. "Your cousins, your aunt, Meg and Migs, Rayden—the works. Plus, your devoted fans. Apparently, you're kind of a big deal."
"F-fans?"
"Yeah, don't stress about it now, Sid. The whole amnesia thing is like a surprise vacation for your brain. Just sit back and relax."
And in the midst of all the memory loss madness, one name stood out like a neon sign at a deserted carnival. "Who's this Rayden fellow?"
Carson seemed to swallow a rock before he responded, his voice cracking like he was trying to impersonate a distressed seagull. "Oh, he's just the one you adore."
With those words, a rapid-fire slideshow started playing in my mind. Familiar faces, and then one that set my heart racing faster than an espresso machine in overdrive.
"And where might this adored creature be?"
"He's like your personal stalker, but in the sweetest way possible. He'll be here in approximately sixty minutes. Brace yourself." Carson's energy was infectious, even if I felt like my life had turned into a bizarre sitcom.
So, here I was, in a hospital bed, sans memories, but with a promising rendezvous with Mr. Mysterious-Rays-of-Sunshine. Who knew memory loss could come with a dash of romantic suspense?