by KUBOA
***
The receptionist with the big tits smiles and says, “Your appointment with Dr Bracknell was yesterday, Mr Roberts.”
“That’s a mistake,” I say. “My GP, doctor Hounslow, referred me. The procedure is scheduled for today, I’m sure of it.”
She looks over to her computer screen again, clicks twice on the mouse and shakes her head.
“Our records show the appointment was yesterday, and that you attended. Are you wanting a new appointment, or did you wish to speak with Dr Bracknell?”
An old man with a tired expression walks out from a door to my left, in his hands are brown folders. He walks up to the receptionist’s desk and places them in an out tray.
He says, “Can you make sure these are sent down for archiving.”
The receptionist agrees and addresses the man, “Dr Bracknell, this is Mr Roberts and…”
Before she can finish, the old man has taken off the glasses and offered me his hand.
“Mr Roberts, how are things?”
I’m taken aback by his informality, but I tell him I’m fine and we shake.
Placing his glasses in the top pocket of a dogtooth blazer, he says, “I’m assuming you wish to see me?”
“I have an appointment.”
“Another? I don’t believe I…”
He turns to the receptionist who explains the mix up.
Turning back to me, he says, “Mr Roberts, I am going to ask you a question. It may sound a little strange, but if you could indulge an old man, I would greatly appreciate an honest answer.”
I nod.
He asks, “Have you any recollection of being here before?”
I look to the receptionist, who seems a little embarrassed, and shake my head.
He asks, “Do you think we have ever met?”
I shake my head.
“Maybe we should go into my office.”
The interior is warm, and an expensive looking walnut desk leads me to think he’s very good at his job. A display cabinet, home to medical reference journals, encyclopaedias and an internal plastic stomach dissection, confirms his expertise. We both sit and he leans into his desk, both hands grasped.
“I am going to tell you something that may cause you concern, Mr Roberts.”
When a rectal surgeon who specialises in fecal incontinence, rectal cancer and inflammatory bowel disease, says this, you have to give it your full attention.
“Within the limbic system of the temporal lobe, there is a section of the brain called the hippocampus. It deals with episodic memories, Mr Roberts. When a patient is in the first stages of Alzheimer's disease, this section is affected before any other part of the cortex. The damage sustained to the hippocampus results in the inability to form new memories. Therefore, an Alzheimer’s patient, you could say, is lost forever in the past.”
“I didn’t know anal bleeding was a sign of Alzheimer’s.”
“I can assure you, Mr Roberts, it is not, and should only be noted for comparison purposes only.”
“Comparison?”
“Alzheimer’s affects all short term memory, whereas another result of injury to the hippocampus is something called anterograde amnesia, which affects memories prior to damage.”
The old man leans back in his chair, studies me for a moment, and then gets up. Taking the corner of the desk closest to me as a seat, he says, “I think you are suffering from anterograde amnesia, Mr Roberts.”
“It’s the booze. I’ve been drinking a lot recently because my marriage is nearing its end. Memory holes are par the course.”
“Were you under the influence yesterday, Mr Roberts?”
“Probably,” I tell him.
“Then you hide it well. During my pre-examination for the anal dilation procedure, one we began but never finished, you answered all my questions with both lucidity and good humour. I have the results here.”
He went back around to his desk drawer and pulled a small folder, similar to those he handed the big-titted receptionist. When back on the corner of the desk, he handed me two sheets of paper.
“Is this a joke?”
“I’m a rectal surgeon, Mr Roberts. We pride ourselves on our lack of humour.”
I read the paper. It is a series of customary questions regarding family history, average bowel movements, and appraisal of localised pain. At the top is my name and address, and at the bottom my signature and yesterday’s date.
“As you can see, Mr Roberts, there is no way I could have obtained this information had you not provided it. And I’m quite sure, even at this stage, if any doubt remains, the indisputable presence of your signature should allay any concerns that I am a joker.”
I’m not buying it. Maggie has put this guy up to it. She is obviously trying to portray me in an unfavourable light so the divorce will move swiftly and in her favour. I don’t know how she did it, or how my supposed memory loss would help achieve a quick separation, but I can only assume that my reluctance to sign the divorce papers was causing her too much distress and she was prepared to do anything, and everything, to skip that formality.
“Nice try, but faking my signature and trying to baffle me with medical jargon isn’t going to get me to sign those divorce papers. Maggie and I still have a chance on working things out.”
“Maggie? I assume that’s your wife? Yes, you mentioned yesterday you believed her to be at blame for the twine.”
“The twine?”
“While performing the procedure yesterday we discovered a length of blue twine at the rectal opening. Least at that juncture I believed it to be twine, but after you left, and your unawareness to its existence seemed convincing enough, I conversed, with much discretion I might hesitant to add, with a colleague from my university days. He is a neuroscientist at the city’s main hospital. We spoke at length about episodic encodings, quite frankly a riveting subject within itself, and the role and damage of the hippocampus.”
“I took a bath, one I didn’t remember running, and around my wrist was a length of blue twine that I don’t remember attaching. This morning I found a small container with a shorter length on the side of the bath.”
He asks, “One like this?”
The old man reaches over his desk to a small drawer and pulls out an identical clear plastic container like the one I have back home. I nod my head.
“I know this must be worrying, or a lot to take in, Mr Roberts, but I would like to refer you to my friend for further examination.”
I ask him why.
“To confirm, or denounce my theory.”
“And what’s that?”
“Though it is highly implausible, it could be that a rouge cell strand from the neural circuitry found in the hippocampus could have somehow bifurcated and found its way to the colon. Like I say, it is highly doubtful, but at this stage, it’s my only elucidation regards your memory loss.”
“Repeat that in English.”
“The twine at the rectal opening is not twine at all. It is a small strand containing your short-term memory. This strand has somehow unthreaded itself from the hippocampus, and over time, maybe even years, found its way through, and into your digestive system. In short, you’re leaking memories.”
I laugh, half expecting the old man to join me. But he doesn’t. The old fucker’s face is as impassive as that bitch Liberty.
“I know how it sounds, Mr Roberts. I am a doctor, and it is not in our practice to speculate so outlandishly. But if you’re willing to undergo a small experiment with me, then hopefully, some truth will be found in my conjecture.”
The doc hands me a piece of paper and tells me to write on it what I had for breakfast, underneath that, my favourite colour. I have to show him this before I place it into my pocket. He then tells me to remove my trousers
and boxer shorts. Behind his desk I see wall mounted certificates, most of which I cannot read clearly, but somehow provide reassurance that I’m not about to be the victim of buggery. Once bent over his desk, he places on a pair of latex gloves and after a few minutes returns to his desk with a small length of blue twine.
“Nice try, but faking my signature, and trying to baffle me with medical jargon, isn’t going to get me to sign those divorce papers. Maggie and I still have a chance on working things out.”
“Do you know where you are, Mr Roberts?”
“Of course I do. I’m attending a consultation regards an anal fissure.”
It then occurs to me there’s been a shift, both in time and my position. I look to the chair I should be sat on, and then notice I’m naked from the waist down. Matters of discretion take over and I pull up my trousers within seconds. The doctor is now sat back at his chair.
He says, “Don’t be alarmed, Mr Roberts. You’re not the victim of any illusory magic, nor prank set up by your wife, Maggie.” He points at the chair opposite, and says, “If you please take a seat I’ll explain all.”
“Go fuck yourself!”
I begin to make my way to the door.
“Please, Mr Roberts, there’s no need to leave.”
“What the hell did you use on me? Chloroform or Ketamine?
“The answer you’re looking for is in your left trouser pocket, Mr Roberts. And of course what I hold in my hand.”
I reach into my left pocket and feel a piece of paper.
As I pull it out the doctor says, “Bran Flakes and the colour yellow.”
I ask him to explain.
“You ate Bran Flakes this morning, and your favourite colour is yellow.”
He gestures towards the paper still folded in my hand. I look down and open it, and there, written in my handwriting are the words: Bran Flakes. Yellow. Underneath is my signature.
“This is gone beyond a joke.”
“This is only an estimated guess, but I believe the twine’s length is important in understanding how many memories are lost. Yesterday, during the procedure, I retrieved possibly five to seven inches. Shortly thereafter, your cognitive state alternated and you regressed, again, by five minutes. In theory, an inch of the nerve cell represents a minute of your short term memory, hence why I only removed two inches on this occasion, as I have little time in my day to keep repeating myself, even if that person appears to be a miracle of science.”
“If all this is true, what would happen if I kept pulling at the twine? How many memories would be lost forever?”
“That’s a mathematical and highly dangerous supposition, Mr Roberts. If indeed what we’re dealing with here is a cell strand from hippocampus, then like many other cells within the body the length is sometimes greater than the space in which it occupies. My friend, Dr Oberman, would be a better person to converse with on the subject. However, at a conservative guess, you could pull in the region of five metres, to five miles. I’m really no expert on the subject.”
There’s no use in trying to do the math.
He says, “You could be at an advantage, Mr Roberts. How many people are given the opportunity to eradicate those moments in one’s life we’d all rather forget?”
If he’s joking, I don’t laugh.
When your marriage is drawing to an end, and all you have is the understanding it was your fault, your mistakes, and your affairs that made your wife cut herself and file for a divorce, you take understanding out of the equation.
