Gone

by Cronk, LN

  “His name is Lorenzo Soto,” Dr. Reyes said. “I think you’ll like him – he did his residency at Duke University.”

  “In North Carolina?”

  “No,” Dr. Reyes said, wryly. “The Duke University that’s in Tijuana.”

  Like the appointment with Dr. Reyes, Laci was with me when I saw Dr. Soto. After she explained to him in a nervous voice what had been going on, he asked me some questions.

  “Have either of your parents suffered from dementia?”

  “Well, maybe my father,” I said. “He had a stroke about a year ago and he’s in a nursing home now. It’s really hard to communicate with him . . . he doesn’t seem to know what’s going on a lot of the time, but it’s hard to tell.”

  “But he’s never had an official diagnosis of Alzheimer’s or anything like that?”

  I shook my head. “He was fine before he had the stroke.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “She died from a pulmonary embolism when she was fifty-seven,” Laci told him.

  The doctor nodded.

  “So,” he said, “it’s possible that your mother had Alzheimer’s, but died before she became symptomatic?”

  “You think I have Alzheimer’s?”

  “No, not necessarily,” he said. “These symptoms can be an indication of other problems as well, but Alzheimer’s is definitely one of the things that we need to consider.”

  “But he’s too young to have Alzheimer’s,” Laci protested.

  “It’s rare for someone in their early fifties to be diagnosed with Alzheimer’s,” he acknowledged, “but it can certainly happen. It’s called Early-Onset Alzheimer’s.”

  “Early-Onset Alzheimer’s?”

  “That’s what we call it when it’s diagnosed in a patient under age sixty-five. It can even appear in patients under the age of forty, but that’s extremely rare.”

  “You said that’s just one of the things that could be causing this,” I said. “What else might it be?”

  “Well, it’s possible that you’re suffering from small strokes that are producing these symptoms. We also need to rule out cerebrovascular disease, blood clots, thyroid problems, a brain tumor . . .”

  With the small exception of thyroid problems, none of this was sounding too promising.

  “Stress,” he went on, “depression, fatigue . . .”

  Those sounded better.

  “Or . . .” he said.

  “Or what?”

  “Or,” he shrugged. “It could be nothing.”

  “Did you hear what he said?” Laci asked on the way home. “It could be nothing . . .”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Or it could be a whole lotta other things.”

  “But a lot of them are very treatable . . . like what if it’s just stress? I’ll bet it’s just stress.”

  “It’s not stress!” I told her. She looked at me. “Laci, I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my whole life. The kids are out on their own, doing great . . . I’m at the point now where I can pick the projects I want at work . . . I’m getting to work with Dorito on the new wing . . .” I’m married to you . . . “What exactly do you think I’m stressed about?” I went on, glancing at her.

  “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “But maybe we just need a vacation.”

  That evening, I called Mike.

  “They did a bunch of tests,” I told him.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “They took about a gallon of blood and he said something about genetic testing and thyroid levels and liver function and then they did an MRI, and a PET scan and I’m supposed to have spinal fluid drawn tomorrow, which – I gotta tell ya – doesn't sound like a whole lot of fun . . .”

  “If you want to come home,” Mike said, “you can give me your doctor’s info and we can get all your test results sent up here. I can get you in with Dr. Keener at the Mayo Clinic. He’s a great guy – I’ve known him since med school.”

  “You think I should come home?”

  “He’s one of the best neurologists in the world. I mean . . . it’s up to you, but if it were me I’d want to see Dr. Keener.”

  I hesitated.

  “You could stay with me and Danica,” he offered. “We haven’t gotten together with you guys for a long time and it’d be great to see you . . .”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt for us to take a vacation.”

  We made arrangements for Dr. Soto to send all of my test results to the Mayo Clinic, bought our plane tickets, and packed our bags.

  I had always considered the United States to be my home and – as always – I was anxious to leave Mexico.

  If I had known, however, as I pulled out of the driveway, that I would never be returning to the house where we’d raised our six children and spent almost half of our lives, would I have felt differently? Would I have shed a tear if I’d know that one day Dorito and his wife were going to have to come in and clean it out for us? If I’d know that I would never set foot on Mexican soil again . . . would I have been sad?

  Yes.

  ~ ~ ~

  WE GOT TO Minnesota on Sunday evening and Mike and Danica both met us at the airport. I could tell from the way that they were both acting that whatever Laci had filled their heads with had them both really worried, but I tried not to let it get to me. There’d been one isolated incident at work and that was it (except for somehow winding up half of an hour on the other side of Zocaló, the silverware in my desk drawer, and the sink overflowing).

  Nothing to worry about at all.

  We had an appointment with Dr. Keener at seven-thirty the next morning. I had the distinct impression that he normally started his day at eight and that he was meeting with us early only because he was friends with Mike and was doing him a favor. He unlocked the door to his office for us himself (his receptionist was hanging her purse up in a closet when we walked by her window).

  “You’re going to have a lot of testing done today,” he began.

  “Not another spinal tap, I hope,” I said.

  “No. We have the results from the one you had done in Mexico and we can use those. We’ve also received the results from the blood work and DNA testing.”

  “What did they show?” Laci asked anxiously, leaning forward.

  “Let’s wait and discuss all of the results tomorrow after we have a complete picture to look at.”

  Laci nodded tightly and sat back.

  “I’ve scheduled you to have a battery of neurocognitive tests today, a neuropsychological evaluation and I’d like to have another MRI done – this time with contrast.”

  That was fine with me. I could lie still for twenty minutes listening to that thing banging and clanking around me just fine . . . as long as I didn’t have to have another lumbar puncture.

  The MRI with contrast was going to be done at an imaging center about a quarter of a mile away, and then I would come back to Dr. Keener’s clinic for the rest of the tests.

  “With contrast” meant that after they did the preliminary MRI scan they pulled me back out of the tube and injected me with something. Then they slid me back into the tube and did a bunch of sequences of scans. In between each sequence the machine was humming, but while the sequences were actually being taken, it sounded like a road crew. I had ear plugs, but they didn’t help much.

  After I was done with the MRI, I went out into the lobby where Laci was waiting for me. We got into our rental car and drove back to Dr. Keener’s clinic.

  I saw three different people while I was at the clinic. The first one was a woman who gave me all the cognitive tests.

  “First,” she said, “we are going to administer a very short test called the Blessed Test.”

  “The Blessed Test?” I asked and she smiled. “Why’s it called that?”

  “It’s named after the man who developed it.”

  I nodded.

  “Are you ready?” she asked, and I nodded again.

  She s
tarted out by asking me all sorts of normal stuff like my age, address, phone number, what year, month, day and hour it was. Then I had to say all the months of the year backwards, count from one to twenty and later backwards from twenty to one (all of which I happened to nail). She wanted to know who the President of the United States was (duh). Who was the Prime Minister? Of which country? I asked. Of Great Britain, she told me. I answered her and then threw in the Prime Minister of Israel for good measure.

  After that we moved on to some other tests. I had to draw an analog clock with the face, numbers and hands. I had to take a computerized test with a touch screen that tested my memory and concentration. I had to draw pictures with different patterns on them. I also got to do some math.

  After she was finished with me, I went down the hall and into another room that had some exercise equipment and mats and stuff in it. Some guy came in and tested me by having me complete a bunch of physical tasks. I felt like someone who had just been pulled over by a policeman under suspicion of drunk driving. Lift your right arm straight out in front of you. Follow this light with only your eyes. Lace your fingers behind your back. Walk this line.

  After that he asked me to tie and untie my shoes . . . had me unbuckle and then buckle my belt . . . gave me a pair of gloves and asked me to put them on. I had to stack blocks by looking at a picture and copying the structure that I saw and bounce a ball back and forth with him like we were playing four-square.

  Finally I went to another examining room and got turned over to a third person who asked me all kinds of questions about how I was feeling. Was I more tired than normal? Was I sleeping well at night? Was I worried about anything? (Uhhh, yeah, I’m worried that apparently my brain isn’t working right.) Did I think I was depressed? Did I ever hear voices? Had I ever thought about harming or killing myself? Harming or killing others? Had anything traumatic happened to me recently?

  And during some of this time, Laci was in another room, answering all sorts of questions too.

  When we were finally done it was after two o’clock and I was starving.

  “Let’s go get some lunch,” I suggested and Laci nodded. At the restaurant, however, she didn’t order anything. After the waitress left, I asked her, “Did you already eat while I was being tested?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m just not hungry.”

  “Come on, Laci. Ya gotta eat!”

  “I can’t,” she said in a small voice.

  I got up and grabbed another menu and put it down in front of her.

  “Order something,” I said, tapping the menu. “You don’t need to be worried – everything went really, really good today.”

  She looked at me doubtfully.

  “It did!” I insisted. “All those tests I did at the clinic – counting backwards and remembering patterns and stuff – I nailed it. And I haven’t been doing anything weird lately, have I?”

  “No,” she admitted.

  “When’s the last time I did something that wasn’t right?”

  “I guess . . . I guess about a week ago,” she said.

  “So whatever it was was probably just a fluke – I’m fine!” I said, tapping the menu again. “Please pick something to eat.”

  She nodded reluctantly and looked down at her menu. She didn’t remind me that I’d had other periods of time where I’d seemed fine too, but that the problems kept coming back. She didn’t wonder aloud why the doctor had ordered another MRI if the first one had been fine. She didn’t question why we hadn’t been told the results of all the testing that had already come back if everything was so fine.

  That evening, Danica and Mike went all out, making us a special dinner. We had cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto, salad with jicama and goat cheese, sautéed asparagus, garlic stuffed potatoes, grilled filet mignon and lobster tails with butter.

  After we ate, I felt stuffed . . . happy. We settled back in chairs in the living room, watching the embers glowing in their fireplace.

  Then – suddenly – Mike was squatted down next to me with his hand on my knee. Over his shoulder I could see Laci, crying softly, and Danica trying to console her.

  “What’s going on?” I asked him.

  Mike narrowed his eyes at me.

  “Do you know where you are?” he asked.

  “Of course I know where I am!” (What a stupid question.) “What’s going on?” I asked again.

  “You were . . .” Mike hesitated. “You were confused for a few minutes, that’s all.”

  I glanced at Laci who was trying to wipe away evidence that she had been crying. Danica was still talking to her quietly.

  “Confused, how?” I asked.

  “Well,” Mike said, gently. “You wanted some dessert.”

  “But we just had cake,” I pointed out.

  “I know,” Mike agreed, “but you didn’t remember that. You kept asking for a red freezer pop.”

  “Really?”

  “See?” Laci asked in a shrill voice. “This is exactly what I’ve been talking about!”

  Mike turned to her and gave her a look that I think he intended to silence her. He turned back to me.

  “It’s okay, David,” he said reassuringly, patting me on the knee. “Do you know what day it is?”

  “Yes!” I said, irritably. “It’s Monday. We spent all day at the doctor. We’re getting the results back tomorrow, which happens to be Tuesday, unless they’ve changed things around and haven’t told me about it.”

  He smiled at me.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “You’re Mike, the witch doctor.”

  He smiled again and removed his hand from my knee.

  That was the first time I was actually aware that something had happened – the first time I knew that I had been . . . gone.

  Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the last.

  ~ ~ ~

  THE RESULTS THE next morning were not going to be good.

  That evening, for the first time – lying there in bed – I realized this with certainty. Before now, I think I had been clinging to what Dr. Soto had told me: It could be nothing. Although I’d had people telling me that things weren’t right, I had felt so normal that I’d convinced myself everything was okay. Plus, Laci had admitted that nothing had happened in about a week.

  But what had occurred after dinner a few hours ago had not been right and I now knew for certain what Laci had apparently known for weeks – something was wrong.

  Really, really wrong.

  This was a frightening realization and with it came a painful flutter in the pit of my stomach and a shortness of breath that no amount of cough medicine was ever going to fix.

  Every morning when we got up and every evening before we went to bed, Laci and I would kneel down on the floor together and pray. It was something we had done ever since we had gotten married. And so, this evening – like always – we’d prayed together, but I’d been completely disconnected . . . like a wooden marionette, simply going through the motions.

  I tried to pray again now, but it wasn’t going to happen, so I lay there in the darkness feeling more alone than I ever had in my entire life.

  Of course I wasn’t alone – Laci was lying right there next to me – but I felt very alone. And panicked. And scared.

  This cannot be happening. This cannot be happening.

  But it was.

  My mind drifted to a time when I’d been in college. There’d been a woman at the church I went to who’d had a brain tumor. I remembered praying for her with my Bible study group and I remembered that she would show up periodically for a Sunday service or a church picnic and then she’d disappear again for a few weeks and we’d get further prayer requests, detailing her apparently hopeless battle. They’d done surgery and chemotherapy and radiation and then more surgery and more chemotherapy and more radiation and then, even more.

  After each surgery she had looked worse and worse. First they had just shaved part of her head and put a bunch of metal stitch
es in. Then they’d done the chemo and radiation. She’d lost all of her hair and arrived at church looking feeble and drained, the skin where they’d done the radiation looking painfully bright red. During the next surgery they had removed part of her skull or something and she was left with a big dent in her head. The last surgery she endured had relegated her to a wheelchair, and – after that – they’d finally left her alone and let her die in peace.

  She had lived for about nine months after her first surgery and had been so sick and so miserable for most of her time after that that I couldn’t help but wonder – if she had known that all the treatments and surgeries weren’t going to work . . . if she had known that she was going to die anyway – would she have still fought so valiantly? Would it have been better for her to spend her last few months enjoying what time she had left with her loved ones instead of sitting in hospital rooms, waiting for and enduring treatments that were only going to make her feel worse?

  If there wasn’t a good chance, a really, really good chance that I would get better, I had thought at the time, I would not want to go through all that.

  But now – faced with such a possibility – was I really ready to give up so easily and die? I lay there and thought about how much I was willing to bear and how much I would be willing to fight.

  After thinking about it for a while, it became clear to me that – if I was going to die anyway – I did not want to spend the rest of my life sick and miserable the way she had.