Memory: the elephant in the room

When he noticed that song lyrics seemed immune from memory loss following brain injury, Billy Mann got to wondering what it is exactly that stimulates our ability to recall and recollect

There are advantages to having a brain injury. At social and formal gatherings you are allowed to forget things. You can walk into a room, be introduced to half a dozen people and instantly forget their names. Then, when you bump into one of them later, they forgive you when you whimper, pathetically, “I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.”

Memory problems are very common among people with brain injuries. One day a week, I attend Headway East London in Hackney. Some of my fellow members there cannot remember my name from one moment to the next. One of them, Sharon, who I have now been happily greeting each week for around two years, stares at me, her face screwed up in quizzical concentration. 

“It begins with a B...” she says. 

“Yes,” I answer, and wait a few beats. 

“Bobby?" 

"No. Billy." 

That we have arrived at B in two years is, I like to think, some kind of minor miracle.

Another member I see regularly is Stuart, who also suffers from acute memory problems. Stuart and I have a part-share in a backstory. We are both a similar age and we both lived in Liverpool during the late 1980s. Like Sharon, Stuart greets me each week with a confused and inscrutable look. He will then take a guess at my identity. 

"Scouser?"

What both Sharon and Stuart share, other than their difficulties with short-term memory, is a love of music. In Sharon's case, this comes down to a girlish infatuation with The Osmonds, an American family group popular in the 1970s. They were five brothers — Alan, Wayne, Merrill, Jay and Donny. Other Osmonds (Mormons, big family, etc) also enjoyed some commercial success on the 1970s music scene, notably Marie with a memorable song, Paper Roses, and Little Jimmy Osmond with a cheeky number titled Long Haired Lover from Liverpool. The Osmond Brothers themselves had many hit records, but the one that comes to mind right now is 1974’s Love Me for a Reason. It comes to mind because with those five words Sharon's memory is thrown on to some kind of neurological dancefloor and the words come flooding back: 

Don't love me for fun, girl

Let me be the one, girl

Love me for a reason

Let the reason be love

In 1995 the boyband Boyzone attempted their own version of the song, but as Sharon is quick to remark, it was nothing on the Osmonds’ rendition. She might have put it less politely.

The routine with Stuart is similar. In his case we have an ongoing exchange relating to music from 1970s-80s Liverpool (Stuart was a performing musician in the city then). Our first meeting point each week normally involves an exchange of lyrics from a band associated with Liverpool called The Scaffold, a trio that actually started in the heady days of the 1960s and enjoyed notable success during that swinging decade. They were a performing ratatouille of comedy, poetry and music featuring Mike McGear (real name Peter Michael McCartney and brother of Paul McCartney), Roger McGough (he’s that Poetry Please guy off the radio) and madcap funnyman John Gorman. Each week Stuart will smile brightly in my direction and say “Thank you very much for the Aintree Iron” (a line from the Scaffold song Thank U Very Much), to which I will reply “Did you get your medicinal compound, Stuart?” (from the Scaffold song Lily The Pink). Stuart catches on to this game without hesitation and answers with another lyrical reference to Lily The Pink. 

“Yes, most efficacious in every way.”

Clearly both Sharon and Stuart have a thing about song lyrics that makes words stick in their heads. It is a joy to witness, and obviously a potential open door for therapists. But part of me wonders what other memory triggers are sitting hidden in damaged brains everywhere. Could I, for example, attempt a not-so controlled experiment in which I appear casually to mention the character Boss Hogg from the 1980s US TV show The Dukes of Hazzard while actually fishing for a bit of anecdotal evidence on the importance of popular culture in understanding a badly misfiring memory.

Memory is a strange fruit. It is part of that thing we would like to call our soul, but we know little about it. At best I am prepared to stick my neck out and say that memory is the slippery customer that skates the thin ice that separates the neuro from the psycho. There is also something about memory that repels fiddling. Mess around with it and you risk the wrath of the gods, etc.

Which draws me back to where I started. There is another advantage to having a brain injury. I call it the Automatic Exit Strategy (AES). When you are at a social or formal gathering and starting to glaze over with boredom right in front of someone, you can just say, “Sorry, I have to go now” and they won't turn to the person next to them and say, “How rude was that?” I have an agreed version of this with my wife. I say, “I’ll just go and sit down and shut up, shall I?” to which she replies, “Yes, please.” 

OK, then, that's my cue to leave the table. Bye for now. And don’t go trying to tinker with any of those memories while I’m gone.

Sharon is not her real name.

Club 300 Closes: but did it work?

A project to test the theory that 300 repetitions results in improved performance has come to an end. And the results are in. By Billy Mann

The Occupational Therapy project at Headway East London I posted about a while back has now finished. To recap, Club 300 as we cheekily called it, brought together four members of Headway East London, each of whom wanted to gain some improvement in the execution of an everyday task. Two members wanted to improve their handwriting, another wanted to cut up food on a plate more confidently, and I tasked myself with the mission impossible of walking without a stick while holding a cup of water in my weaker left hand. 

If you want detailed information on the results of this exercise, the OT in charge was Natasha Lockyer. I cannot discuss how others performed, but to finish the analysis, the tests we performed at the start were repeated at the end and the change recorded. At the start, I had walked a given distance (not sure what it was) holding a cup in my left hand filled to near the top with water in 46 seconds, and I spilled around 10ml in the process. At the end, I walked the same distance in 18 seconds and spilled no water. Get me, eh? Top of the world, Ma.

In my daily executions of these 300 steps, I determined to make the task more difficult as my performance improved. This, I am afraid to say, has fallen by the wayside in favour of basking in the success of spilling no water. Still, I do continue to perform the routine every day (or thereabouts) and continue to notice a difference. I shall report on my progress as and when something of interest happens, and I will ask Natasha if a re-run of the test in, say, 6 months is possible. Only then will I be able to declare Club 300 a giant leap for mankind.

One Small Step: Learning to carry a cup

Learning to carry a cup in my left hand, while walking. It's not as easy as you think, says Billy Mann

This is the third week of an Upper Limb OT project I am following devised by Natasha Lockyer at Headway East London. The idea is based on research that has indicated that 300 is a magic number of repetitions post brain injury to deliver meaningful brain change. So, if you perform a given routine activity at 300 repetitions daily, in this case for 6 weeks, lasting improvement in the execution of that task will result.
This sounded plausible to me, so I said I would give it a crack. We have called the group Club 300 for a bit of a laugh. One member of the group is practising cutting food (ie, Theraputty) to develop the fine motoring of her right hand. Two others are working on handwriting. My task is to walk 300 steps daily with no walking stick and a cup of water in my left hand. This is a sort of continuation of therapy I was introduced to at a 3-week intensive Upper Limb clinic I attended at London’s National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery earlier this year.I think it is probably a statement of the bleeding obvious that this regime got off to a stuttering start. Having made some initial measurements as a benchmark against which progress can later be recorded, I set about repeatedly walking back and forth with a cup of water in my left hand. The movements, as Headway East London staffer Anne noted, were comically robotic. I managed to tip water all over myself on several occasions and came away from the session with a very wet pair of quite expensive shoes. Slowly, however, and with Anne’s help, I started to improve. The main problem for me was one of focus. My concentration flitted from the cup of water to the uneven paving in front of me. With practice, and via a not entirely unexpected echo of the ‘cognitive distraction’ I have described before, I found the best results (ie, not much water spilled) by fixing my attention on a distant object (in this case, a wall) and humming a tune while walking. 
As they say in court reports, the case continues. Watch this space.

Talk The Talk: 'Finding words' after brain injury

'Finding words' after brain injury. The process of discovery can be both bewildering and endlessly challenging, says Billy Mann

I read a report recently with the headline Comedians’ ‘gift of the gab’ linked to differences in brain activity and it occurred to me that as I have recovered from the effects of a stroke more than two years ago I have become more articulate. I have no idea whether the two are causally related. In fact, I have no idea whether I have actually become more articulate (my wife is doubtful), and I am not sure how this could ever be measured. All I know is that the words seem to flow more easily, if that is a definition of articulacy. I cannot be certain how easily they flowed before my brain injury, but I do recall incidents in which I felt “tongue-tied” or “lost for words”. Now instead I sometimes feel verbally incontinent. The experience of not finding the right word at the right time is not unusual. Who has not emerged from a stalled conversation and not reflected later that “I wish I had said that…” Not now. Not for me, anyway. In fact, I suspect sometimes that my brain injury has left me with a special variant type of Tourette’s in which I can’t stop saying what I think. 

Show me the money: motor learning

Can cold hard cash deliver improved upper-limb performance? Billy Mann didn't wait around to find out. He was too eager to bank the profits 

I recently took part in a research project at the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery in Queen Square, London, which aimed to test and record motor learning skills. The test used a specially constructed mechanical arm, which is operated by the test subject to different specifications and under different constraints. 

Very simply, my stroke-affected left arm is placed in a moving mechanical arm beneath table-top screen at the centre of which is located a cursor. At given intervals a square appears randomly on the table-top screen into which I was required to move the cursor as quickly as possible. This is measured by the researcher as data and analysed in some way. To mix it up a bit, a spring resistance is added to the mechanical arm to alter the difficulty of the task. So, if the target square appears randomly in the 10 o'clock position, my attempt to move the cursor to that target is thwarted, as if somebody is pushing my arm in the opposite direction. 

To mix it up further, in one test, each successful meeting of cursor and target is rewarded with a point. And each point is rewarded with a monetary value that I struggled to determine. I scored enough points to pocket £31.60.

Search for the hero: goal setting

Motivation – where does it come from? By Billy Mann

I occasionally ask myself to what extent the small and slow improvements I make in my post-stroke rehabilitation can be attributed to the fantastic work of the therapists I have been lucky enough to work with, and to what degree are they attributable to my own determination and focus along with my personality. The short answer is probably both, in roughly equal measure. The long answer is that I am the hero really, the star striker, and all the health professionals, family, friends, colleagues and people who have input into my life in a positive way since my stroke are the rest of a very successful team.

Back of the net: goal setting

Can football help in post-stroke recovery? with Kevin Keegan and Kenny Dalglish on your side, anything is possible, reckons Billy Mann

In April I took part in a conference on post-stroke goal setting at the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery in Queen Square in London in which I was interviewed by Homerton Hospital physiotherapist Katie Campion. She was presenting on behalf of Bridges Self Management, whose stated aim is to "enable people living with long-term neurological conditions to take control of their rehabilitation and daily lives”. 

During the interview I alluded to ‘goal’ scoring, as in a football match, and spoke of my childhood memories of watching my heroes Kevin Keegan and Kenny Dalglish in action. The goal was, I said, the thing we remember most about the game, the ball struck by a player hitting the back of the net. Then the crowd goes mental. Nobody remembers the goal nearly scored. But, I said, a great goal is often the product of a series of “baby steps”, a collection of passes, tackles and other tactical movements that culminate in a star player making the final strike and basking in the glory of the goal scored. These steps, I argued, are as, if not more significant than the ultimate goal, and the importance of successful passes, shots on target and tackles completed are now being measured by sports statisticians. Players are now ranked not just for the number of goals they score but also for the "goal assists" they provide. 

This gave me a neat way of describing the small hills and big mountains scaled during post-stroke recovery. But that would be taking the mixed metaphor to new extremes.

That pesky right handed thing

When brain injury disables your subdominant side, you have a decision to make. Allow you dominant side to dominate, or buy in to bilateralism? By Billy Mann

This post coincides roughly with the follow-up consultancy appointment at Dr N Ward's Upper Limb clinic at NHNN in Queen Square. In the time since finishing the 3-week intensive Upper Limb Bootcamp in January I have noticed that one problem with turning routines into habits is that the process is made easier if they can be absorbed into existing procedures. I can add shoulder-blade strengthening exercises to my existing gym routine. Ditto ball bouncing while walking. But other routines, especially the ones that targeted the use of my left hand such as carrying water glasses, eating and typing are hindered by the fact that I am right handed and my dominant side naturally will always prevail over the subdominant left side. This means that special measures need to operate if I am to cultivate a more balanced use of both limbs. I have to choose deliberately to drink one cup of tea per day left-handed, or to set aside time for typing exercises. This makes habit forming a lot more difficult and noticeable improvements a lot slower. 

Still, as I discovered just this morning while emptying the dishwasher with my left hand only, just after repositioning the kettle to preclude the overuse of my right hand, it is worth the effort. I only have to look at my improved typing (both hands and many fingers now) to know that. Another thing I have just noticed is that I can make progress in tea drinking by grasping the cup with my left hand rather than trying to fine motor it using two fingers and the handle, upon which my hand begins to shake, with potentially dire consequences.

It's the psychology, stupid

A revealing moment on the treadmill forced Billy Mann to ask whether real progress in post-stroke rehabilitation can ever be felt while you are actually in the process of doing it?

When I pitched up at the NHNN rehab unit back in January of this year for an Upper Limb Bootcamp, I was quickly placed in the charge of the archetypal therapy tag-team of physio and OT. When I had been there two years earlier immediately following my stroke and emergency surgery, a psychologist and a social worker were also part of the squad. This time, the absence of a social worker was not a surprise, but I did think a psychologist's input might be useful. I guessed that in the consultancy process it was decided that I had little need in that respect, which was reassuring. But since motivation forms such a key part of rehabilitation, psychology surely has a role here. 

It is only now, after some time to reflect, that I believe that one of the strengths of the intensive programme is that the psychology is embedded in the experience of the process. It's, like, existential, innit? Is that laughter I can hear? have I strayed too far into the land of Pretension? Let me outline an example and you can decide. 

On one day, Jo, the physiotherapist in charge of my treatment, was off sick and my session was taken by another physio, Fran, who started by asking me whether or not I could run. I answered quickly: "No." Fran then asked me if I had ever tried. "No, but ..."  I then told her of the time a bus driver failed to stop when I had signalled but was then halted by a nearby set of traffic lights. My anger at the driver's conduct impelled me to pursue the bus in order to offer the driver a piece of my mind. So, I tried to "run" after the bus, but my left leg would not co-operate and I was left stranded and very frustrated on the pavement, waving my walking stick and shouting "tosser". 

Fran laughed politely, but of course she now knew that I had the "desire" or the motivation to run, which from a therapy point of view could prove valuable. She then invited me to step on to the treadmill and started me walking at a slow pace, increasing it gently until I had found the momentum of a brisk walk. She started to crank the speed up, to a point at which she was barking at me "run, run run." I frantically tried to obey, flapping my left leg around. All the time Fran was standing casually to one side of the machine, with her left elbow hovering over the red "emergency stop" button. She eventually slowed the machine to a fast walking pace, which was both more comfortable and I suspect more therapeutically useful. 

As soon as I left the session, I sent an SMS text to my wife boasting "I have just been running."