Finding Words in Stages
opening excerpt
Tuesday, October 30, 2012 - Stage 1
When we first sit down, the doctor sitting across from us does not meet our eyes. Instead, he twists in his seat, twirling his expensive pen between his fingers — as if it’s the keeper of secrets, holding the answers to our unoffered questions. He’s balding but fit. Perhaps, a runner? My husband ran. I’ve spent the last five minutes staring at the doctor’s bulging forceps that crest his rolled-up sleeves and at his tie — it’s crooked, which also reminds me of my husband. I want to reach out and fix it. I want to ask if he’s married or in a committed relationship. If he’s ever lost anyone. To begin a discussion of my choosing so I will not have to listen to what he has to say.
Loss is stressful. Damaging. Naturally, I’ve not been myself lately.
Sadly, one can only delay life’s turning moments for so long. It’s best if I let him get it out of his system — he’ll feel better once he’s made me feel worse. I stop looking at his tie and give him a tense smile. He clears his throat, then glances at my son, Jack.
“My exam, the PET scan, were both clear. Unfortunately, it’s not good news.” Having found his courage, he leans forward. His breath smells of tuna. How fitting; I hate tuna.
Today is a good day. I’m sharp, focused. I cannot wait to get home and write about muscled physicians with crooked ties who worship pens. I turn to Jack to tell him we should leave. He looks at me as though I’m already gone. The betrayal cuts deep. For a moment, I wallow in self-pity. No. I will not show weakness. Prove them both wrong.
“It appears, Katherine, that you are in the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease.”
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