Abi Morgan's husband woke up from a coma and didn't recognise her. And only her.

Abi Morgan is one of the most acclaimed and brilliant screenwriters in the world. But it's her own life that became stranger than fiction several years ago. Nothing could have prepared her for the cascading series of events that began on a very ordinary day. The crescendo of this story is that, after waking up from a coma, Abi's partner of 20 years didn't recognise her. And only her...

The following is an excerpt from This is Not a Pity, a memoir written by Abi Morgan.

I have noticed this look in Jacob a few times over the last few days. Watching him grow in confidence, I tell myself it’s because he is focused on relearning, on coming back into himself, his body. But even so, it becomes more pronounced as the days go on. The children are welcomed with a smile and I may get a nod.

In early February we take Jacob out into the square. He is now fully off the ventilator, largely silent, but occasionally he growls a few words. Escorted like the pope in his pope mobile, Ruby and Leo, Josh’s children, are gripping the arms of his wheelchair. Mainly he smiles as he is wheeled around the wintery square, swaddled in blankets and scarves and hat. The family have come to witness, marvelling at the novelty of Jacob returned to the outside world. Bernard, Josh, Mabel and cousins tail Jacob while he, sitting crumpled under the blankets, filters our adoration through a blinking stare. Silent yet utterly there, he is squeezed and hugged and kissed by us all. But the star attraction is Styler, feverishly tugging at his fluorescent lead, sniffing the bins and snapping at fat pigeons. But on seeing Jacob, Styler springs to attention, and Jacob, as if at last remembering his cue, reaches out, trying to pull him close. Until we have to pick Styler up and sit him on Jacob’s lap and he buries his face into Styler’s fur. This is the grand reunion, both touching and a little odd, so profound is Jacob’s love for our dog, clinging onto him tight as we resume perambulation around the square. 

Listen to Mia Freedman's interview with Abi Morgan on No Filter. Story continues after podcast.

I film it all, and what embarrasses me most when I play it back to myself, is not just that I am talking to Jacob like a child, but that he is smiling at everyone, bar me. I notice that from time to time when I speak, he looks towards the camera, bewildered and a little irritated, until I am left standing with Penny, one of the nurses, and Brian, Jacob’s fellow patient, also in a chair and along for the ride.

Back in his bed, later, a little tired and coming down from the trip, Mabel leans over his hospital bed, and sings to him. An Adele song, which he loves, her singing beautiful and rich, looking up at her adoringly as she strokes his arm.

"That was lovely," he growls, his voice still rough from all the months of tubes and tracheotomy, with such focus on her it’s as if he is trying to blot out the rest of the world. Once more, I film it on my iPhone, the quiet intruder, always watching him. He turns a little, as if he feels the invasion.

Is it my imagination that he glares at me? 

Later, when I go to say goodbye, he won’t reply, eyes fixed on the children, refusing to look at me. It is starting to become more than irritating; it is mildly disconcerting. Again, I tell myself, I’m paranoid. He’s fine. He’s just still waking up, like some grumpy, fat-bottomed bear.

A few days later, Jamie, his friend who plays the ukulele, comes to visit.

"Jamie’s here, Jacob?" I say with a smile.

He greets Jamie warmly. Then raising a hand, but barely looking at me he says,

"Can you wait outside? Wait outside by the door, please."

Jamie and I look at one another, a little confused.

"Me? You want me to wait outside?" I reply.

"Yes, thank you."

He’s more insistent now. 

"Yes, please."

Like he’s talking to some over-attentive member of staff. I dutifully concede, standing outside, looking in, exiled between the medical bins and Brian, who is being suctioned in the next bed. I discreetly put my fingers in my ears. Jamie occasionally looks up at me, visible through the glass wall, like some mildly embarrassed parent whose child won’t play nicely. I call my sister—

"He keeps ignoring me."

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Mamamia (@mamamiaaus)

Four days later, it is Valentine’s. I go in with a bright red heart balloon and cake. For once, there is no one else in. A nurse I have not met before sits in the corner on a stool, quietly monitoring and checking his meds. 

I enter, and on seeing me she smiles, in anticipation— 

"Look, Jacob. Your wife’s here."

He does not raise his head or look at me. She furrows her brow a little.

"Jacob. Look, she’s brought you a lovely balloon."

I tie it to his bed. I look at him and smile, hoping he’ll find its cheesiness funny.

"Happy Valentine’s, honey," I say.

He looks up at the balloon, his face and the room perfectly reflected back at him, then back at me, with discomfort. I can see he’s embarrassed for me.

Inside I am grateful I chose not to write a card. The nurse nervously reaches for something by her monitor, trying to save the situation.

"Do you want to give your wife her present?"

She forces it into his hand, a red rose, wrapped in cellophane. The cheap kind you’d buy from a garage or from a rose seller at a table on holiday.

A flicker board of Diptych candles and beautifully composed bouquets go through my mind. The care and the detail Jacob placed on celebrating Valentine’s day varied. There were the meals at Scott’s and the low-fly Dirty Burger days. Some years a swift peck on the stairs and a takeaway. Last year he gave me earrings presented in a restaurant halfway up a mountain, where we ate too much and groaned because we were sore from skiing. It didn’t matter, really. "It’s a made-up sh*t Hallmark holiday anyway," we’d say.

But today, Jacob looks at the nurse, then back at me, gruffly takes the rose—

"Go on. Give your wife the rose, Jacob."

… and lamely holds it out to me.

And then I see it. I know it to my core.

"She’s not my wife," he replies.

Does Jacob remember Abi? Does he know she is not an imposter who works for the State and hasn't run off with another man? Listen to Mia Freedman's full chat with Abi Morgan on No Filter. 

This Is Not A Pity Memoir by Abi Morgan is out now.

Image: Booktopia. 

Feature Image: Getty.