She had left her desk to go up and check on her patient. She would be back. In the meantime, I sat and stared, waiting for thoughts to fall into my head. What was new with me now?
Well, I look different. A few weeks ago I went to see Rocky, my hairdresser since forever, and he gave me a short, cropped hairstyle that made me look like I recovered from typhoid fever. It was a new look and it would grow back anyway. At any rate it was comfortable. It washed and wore well. Also, I gave up smoking three years ago and put on 30 pounds through breathing. I have lost roughly 28 of those pounds. So I am thin again. Finally, for almost a year I’ve been doing Pilates, an exercise I’ve had to stop to save money for a major impending expense, so I guess my body stands well, looks good, does not look as crooked as I knew it to be after my stroke.
She was approaching her office and I smiled at her. "Oh my God," she said. "You are so thin. You are gorgeous." Gorgeous? Me? She whisked me into her office. She said it again: "You look gorgeous." Thank you, thank you, I said. I had not heard that in a very long time and did not know what to do with it. Nevertheless I was grateful. It meant that I was well now, just as she had predicted: two years’ recovery time. Okay, the recovery is not perfect. Whenever I type up something – a column, an e-mail – there is always a small error I find much later as I reread after it has been sent. When I edit before I send, I don’t see it. There are small things I miss out on still. It only means I am not perfect and I am now finally very comfortable with that. No, I don’t take any of the pills you told me to take. However, I am very well now.
"I am proud of you," she says. "You are writing again and I think you are writing better than you used to." I am? "I am so proud of you," she says with a really charming smile that makes me feel so good about myself. Thank you, Dr. Banico.
"My mother is returning and I’d like to find a doctor for her," I said tentatively. "The doctors in Vancouver say she has dementia. I need someone here to help her but I don’t know what kind of doctor."
"Bring her to me," she said confidently. Of course, she is a neurologist, a brain doctor. Dementia is triggered by the destruction of nerve cells in the brain. That is a sentence I remember reading in my Medical Question and Answer Book that my mother gave me. I am so tremendously relieved by her offer.
"Do you think she might have Alzheimer’s?" she asks.
"I don’t know. That’s a possibility but the doctors in Vancouver say she has dementia. I know that somehow that can connect to Alzheimer’s disease but I don’t know how."
"When I have an Alzheimer patient, I warn the family. It is a disease that afflicts the family. The patient does not know what is happening, just knows the world as he sees it but the family is distressed and devastated. I give the families my rules. First, they cannot stay in the same place. The patient must have her own quarters, her own caregivers. Each family member must spend no more than half-an-hour a day with the patient. Each family member must take a full day off every week. This is to preserve the family’s mental health. Then I help the patient. I hope your mother does not have Alzheimer’s," she says with a smile.
I sincerely hope so, too.
"You can bring her over for testing," she says, "but then you must not stay with her or she will look at you for answers and then what sort of testing will be done? I will take care of her. Don’t worry," Dr. Banico said.
I left her office walking on air. She made me feel so confident about myself and so good about my decision to bring my mother home. I am an only child, no brothers or sisters, who else will take care of my mother but me. . . and now, Dr. Banico! I am so glad I called her to check her appointment schedule that fated morning.