3
Two days before she was found hanging in the belfry, Rita went to see Dr Benegas. Elena didn’t know, he didn’t tell her. He did tell Inspector Avellaneda after Rita died. Elena wanted to know what they talked about that day, but she hadn’t thought it was important enough to ask, and now she’s too far away to get answers. She does know what Rita talked to the doctor about two weeks before that, because she was there. It was the last time the mother and daughter saw Dr Benegas together, not in his office but at the hospital. He’d suggested that Elena should be admitted for a couple of days to do a battery of tests. It’s better to do it all at once, Elena, you don’t want to have to deal with a lot of coming and going. Elena was admitted, she brought two new nightgowns with her but she only wore one. She’d always kept new nightgowns on hand, ever since she found out she was sick. In case I have to go into the hospital all of a sudden. But even with two nights in the hospital she used just one, she doesn’t know why. They took blood, did an MRI, tested her reflexes by tapping her knees, looked in her eyes, looked inside her with some machine or rays or something. But they looked, she knows that. They made her walk, lift her arms, lower them, sit, stand. Very good, María, they said to her, because even though no one calls her by her first name her ID says María Elena and she was admitted under the name María E. but they ignored the E. They asked questions, How long does it take for you to feel better after you take the pill? How long until it begins to take effect, María? And how long do the effects last? They wrote down all her answers and took notes on what they observed. She was being treated by one of the best Parkinson’s specialists in the country, Dr Benegas had told them, and his whole team, because the specialist didn’t come alone but with an entire entourage, a group of ten residents who worked with him, proud to be a part of that medical school and to learn from him, and from her. Sometimes they came in twos or threes, to ask things they’d already asked, to take her blood pressure, or just to look at her. Sometimes they got the patients mixed up and asked her about some disease she’d never even heard of. Or they asked about symptoms she’d never suffered, and for a moment she would feel relieved, because if she didn’t have those symptoms she couldn’t be that badly off. Then, thanks to some chance question or comment, Where’s your husband today, Zulema?, she’d realise they weren’t talking about her, they’d gone into the wrong room, or picked up the wrong chart, or they were on the wrong floor or in the wrong wing. She was nice to them regardless, if anyone could help her it was these doctors, the more of them the better. But they didn’t help her. After two days and countless tests, Dr Benegas came to give her the results. Well, you know that Parkinson’s and its evolution have to be studied clinically, there’s no test that can definitively tell us that you have it, or how much you have it, or how far it has advanced, so we can only observe it clinically, do you understand? The women didn’t respond so Benegas continued, Bearing that in mind, it’s my duty to communicate the information the team has gathered and share the conclusions they’ve reached. Tell us, Doctor, Rita said. I don’t know if you, Elena, are going to want to hear it. Tell us, Doctor, Elena said. Your mother has a particular type of Parkinson’s, what we call Parkinson-Plus, do you understand? Plus?, Elena asked. Extra, something more than your regular everyday Parkinson’s, Benegas clarified. We did a whole battery of tests before reaching this conclusion, and we no longer have any doubts, it’s Plus. Plus, Rita repeated. Yes, the doctor confirmed. Plus means more?, Elena asked. More?, Rita said. Yes, more. There’s more, doctor?, Rita asked again. It seems so, child, Elena answered. But Rita wasn’t content with her mother’s answer and she continued, You think what we’re dealing with isn’t enough, Doctor? No, I’m not saying that, I’m saying there’s more. And I, Doctor, am wondering if you know what you’re talking about. Rita!, Elena scolded. You say there’s more?, her daughter asked, ignoring her and going on, More than drooling, pissing herself and stinking of stale piss no matter how much you wash her, more than being unable to take a step on her own, more than dragging her feet the few steps she is able to take thanks to your levodopa, tell me: what more can there be, Doctor? Tell me!, Rita repeated, and she glared at him until Benegas complied. Rita, I think right now, in front of your mother, we shouldn’t… but he didn’t get the rest of the sentence out before Rita interrupted him. More than being forced to stare at the ground, condemned to spend the rest of her life with her head down like she’s ashamed? More than being an unpleasant reminder to people who want to avoid seeing her? More? Rita, I understand, but this is not the time. No, you don’t understand, she assured him. It’s not the doctor’s fault, child. It’s not mine either, Mum. We’d better go, Elena said, but Rita wasn’t finished yet. More than being unable to sit down or get up without help, to cut her own toenails, to tie her shoelaces? There’s more? More than barely being able to swallow, barely able to breathe, thinking she’s going to suffocate? More than eating with her hands, having to try a hundred times before she can pick up a pill, more than having to drink through a ridiculous plastic straw, more than not being able to pull her underwear up or down on her own, or wipe her backside after she takes a shit? That’s enough, child, Elena tried to silence her, but Rita wasn’t listening to anyone but herself. There’s more, Doctor? More than not being able to button a blouse or put on a watch, or zip up her handbag, more than not being able to put in or take out her dentures, more than falling over if there’s nothing supporting her torso, little by little, almost imperceptibly, until she’s lying down on a park bench, leaning against who knows who, more than barely being able to sign her name or read her writing, more than her jaw being clenched shut so that she can’t enunciate and you can only guess what she’s trying to say? More? You’re saying there’s more, Doctor? Dr Benegas tried to get a word in, I’m going to have to ask you to… but she interrupted him. You don’t have to ask me to do anything, Rita spat as she stood up, placed her hands on the table and leaned over until her face was close to his. Take a look, if you dare, into her dead eyes, into her expressionless face, her hollow smile, you’re really going to ask this poor woman for more? Your mother is strong, you should be grateful for that. But what about me; what are you asking from me? Just that, Rita, a little more, I’m sorry but that’s the way it is, it’s going to ask more of you. What do you mean, exactly? Don’t ask me to be more precise in front of your mother. I’m not asking it, I’m demanding it. I want to know, Doctor, Elena said, tell me what else it’s going to ask of me. If that’s what you want, Elena, I have the obligation to tell you everything I know: the disease will advance more quickly than we’d predicted, in a short time you may not be able to get out of bed, you won’t be able to feed yourself, or go to the bathroom without help, you’ll only be able to eat liquids or semi-liquid food, it will be impossible to understand your speech, you won’t be able to read, it’s likely that you might even experience symptoms of dementia, forgetting things, memory loss. You, Rita, are going to have to think about hiring someone to take care of your mother while you’re at work, the sooner the better for the both of you. Time is short. Rita stood up and without taking her eyes off him, Are you saying she’s going to die soon, Doctor? No, the issue at hand is not the amount of time but the quality of life. And what’s the solution, Doctor? There is none, Rita, it’s the hand she was dealt. It’s the hand I was dealt, child, Elena said. The hand we were dealt, Mum, no cure, no solution, none. Rita stared at the doctor and then said, I can think of one solution, Doctor. What solution? You know. What are you referring to? Plus, you say, more, and if I can’t take any more there’s one thing I can do. I don’t understand. A person can choose, Doctor. Not always, Rita. As long as a person’s alive there’s always hope, your mother is going to live, your mother wants to live. I want to live, child, Elena said. I’m not talking about my mother, said Rita, I’m not sure I’m going to be able to handle any more. You want to put me in a home, Elena said. No, Mum, not a home. Leave me on my own, don’t take care of me if you don’t want to
, but leave me in my own house. You don’t understand anything, Mum. You’re going to be able to handle it, Dr Benegas said, you have to, for your mother. I want to stay in my own house, Rita, I can do it, child. Dr Benegas looked at Rita, There comes a time for us to give back what our parents gave to us, she needs you like you needed her years ago, you’re going to have to be your mother’s mother, Rita, because the Elena we know is going to be a baby. A baby, Rita asked, What are you saying, Doctor? Babies are cute, babies have soft white skin, and clear drool, a baby’s body learns to sit and stand, one day it learns to walk, it gets new teeth, white and healthy. What my mother is going through is the exact opposite, instead of learning to control her sphincters she’s pissing and shitting herself, instead of learning to talk she’s going mute, instead of standing tall she’ll become more and more hunched over, more and more defeated, and I’m condemned to watch as her body dies without her dying. Rita cried for the first time in a long time. No, Doctor, my Mum’s not going to become a baby, and I don’t think I can become the mother you’re asking me to become. We can provide help and support, Rita. For me or for her? Both. Here, said Dr Benegas, picking up some pamphlets and holding them out to show the women. Rita wiped her tears from her face but she didn’t touch the pieces of paper the doctor was trying to hand her so Elena leaned over, opened her palms, and waited for Dr Benegas to place them in her hands. Thank you, she said, gripping the flyers as best she could. Then she held her arm out so her daughter could help her stand, and they left.
Elena Knows Page 11
