Читать книгу Brainstorm - Sheldon J.D. Cohen - Страница 16

He resumed his job. He tried his best, but problems continued to plague him. One afternoon he experienced a recurrence of the ulcer-like symptoms. He had stopped his medication after thinking the pain was gone. Now he had none left to alleviate the condition. After work, he drove to the local drugstore for a bottle of antacids.

This evening he didn’t come home from work on time. Gail was worried. Two hours passed and she panicked. She telephoned the construction site, but nobody answered. She assumed the worst. His job was a thirty-minute drive from home, and many hospitals were located along the way. She called the two nearest ones, but they told her that George Gilmer was neither an inpatient nor had he come through the Emergency Department. Just as she was considering calling the police the telephone rang.

“Hello, Mrs. Gilmer?”

“Yes, who is this please?” she asked.

“I’m officer Dixon of the Roby Avenue police station.

“Oh, my God. What happened?”

“Your husband was caught breaking into a car parked in front of a drugstore. He smashed the window on the driver’s side, got in and drove away. A pedestrian noted the make of the car and the license plate number and called the police. We had a patrol car pick him up. He didn’t answer questions, so the officer called for help and we brought him into the station. He wasn’t cooperating and was acting funny. It took us a while to find out that the car your husband broke into was his own. He smashed the window to get inside after realizing that he had locked the keys in the car. We’ve got him calmed down now and he’s okay. But I got to tell you, he came real close to jail time.”

Gail forced herself to remain calm. “Will he be able to come home now?” she said in a controlled tone of voice.

“Yeah, we were worried about drugs or alcohol, but he snapped out of it fast so that couldn’t be the problem. Right now he’s fine.”

“Thank you, officer.” Relieved, she hung up the receiver. She had not asked to speak to George for fear he would say something wrong. She waited for him to arrive and within twenty minutes he was back home.

Gail remained noncommittal while observing his familiar blank stare and lack of communication. After ten seconds of silence, she spoke. “You might be angry with me, but I need to tell you that you’re a very sick man. You broke your car window and almost wound up behind bars. What could you possibly have been thinking?”

“I had to get into the car. My keys were there.”

“But the police said you didn’t know what you were doing and they thought you were drugged, or maybe even drunk.”

“They’re all exaggerating.”

“Forget it, George. Nothing’s changed. You’re sick. You forget a lot. You’re nervous and irritable, and I’m even getting scared to live with you. You’ve got to take Dr. Crowell’s advice and go see a psychiatrist, and also get the blood tests he ordered. You didn’t do those yet.”

“Maybe you’re the one who needs the shrink,” George answered sarcastically.

“You’re right, I am going nuts,” she sobbed, “but you’re driving me there. You have no idea what this has done to me. Your MRI may have been normal, but something is happening to your brain. Can’t you see it? We can’t go on like this.”

He felt impacted by Gail’s tears. Despite his altered mind-set, there appeared some glimmer of recognition regarding his fragile situation, both at home and work.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll go. But it’s just another waste of money.”

She kept still, fearing that any further discussion might cause him to change his mind.

She telephoned Burt’s office the next morning and spoke to his nurse. Realizing the urgency, the nurse arranged for George to see a psychiatrist right away. The psychiatrist’s schedule was booked months in advance, but he agreed to meet George in the hospital where he made patient rounds.

Gail and George met Dr. Louis Clementi at the hospital clinic. He was everyone’s vision of a psychiatrist—tall, with a gray beard, glasses, a slight Italian accent and a navy blue suit with a light blue shirt and striped tie. Gail thought he resembled an Italian reincarnation of Sigmund Freud. The doctor’s calm presence put them at ease. They entered a small examining room in the outpatient department.

“I’m pleased to meet you both,” said the doctor. “I hope I can help.”

Gail related the entire story, beginning with George’s failure to get the prescribed tests. The doctor took notes while keeping a watchful eye on his patient. He observed George’s fidgeting, anxiety, inattentiveness, and above all, his facial expressions and body language. Then he suggested to Gail that she step out of the room so he could interview her husband in private. The doctor spent a full thirty minutes questioning him before inviting Gail back in. Then, he sat and faced the two of them.

“I don’t like to make a firm diagnosis after one visit.” he offered. “For the record, however, here’s what I think. First, the normal MRI is good news. Your concern about a brain tumor, Mrs. Gilmer, was a good one in light of your husband’s symptoms, and we’re happy that was not the problem, but other conditions can cause such symptoms, even with a normal MRI brain scan. As you know, I see only patients with emotional or mental problems, so I end up with a particular psychiatric diagnosis. Mr. Gilmer has many different symptoms of anxiety, perhaps paranoia, agitation, restlessness, and even amnesia. Yet, I’m beginning to focus my attention on a medical diagnosis rather than a psychiatric one. Many medical problems can affect the brain; that list is endless.”

George listened, squirming in his chair. He tried to concentrate on what the doctor was saying, but he was flooded with a barrage of simultaneous thoughts.

“To tell you the truth I have practiced psychiatry for nearly thirty years and don’t deal with anything purely medical. Nevertheless, not every patient fits into some tight little psychiatric pocket. Mr. Gilmer is a perfect example of this. If there is a moral to this story, it would be that procrastination in getting a full medical work-up can be very dangerous. You must get the tests that Dr. Crowell ordered. You should see him very soon. I will send your doctor a full report.” Clementi paused long enough to make certain that he had made himself clear. Then he said, “Have you any further questions?”

“Is there anything he can take in the meantime to help him relax?” asked Gail.

“He could, but I’m reluctant to prescribe anything without first establishing a specific diagnosis. I don’t want either of you to expect some simple cure that you can obtain from a bottle. This is urgent. You must complete the medical investigation. That is priority number one.” He paused to look at George. “I cannot stress this enough, Mr. Gilmer. There are plenty of unusual medical problems that can cause your symptoms.”

Gail could only hope that the appointment with Dr. Clementi might get George to move forward. “Dr. Crowell is out-of-town,” she said, “but we have his order for the tests so we can go ahead and get them.” Gail glanced over at George, and then she turned her attention back to the doctor.

“Good,” replied the doctor.

George didn’t say anything until they left the clinic. “I told you I wasn’t nuts,” he said. “Today was a waste of time. Everyone’s just passing the buck.”

Gail was unfazed by his remarks. “If you get the tests and something curable is found, it will be worth it. No more stalling.”

“I’ll do it, don’t worry.”

“George, I’ll be staying home this weekend. I’m not going to visit my mother.”

“No way. You and the kids looked forward to this trip for a long time.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll feel better staying home.”

“No,” he insisted.

She felt threatened by his tone, enough to force her to drop the subject.

Neither spoke much at dinner. That was a good sign to Gail, since by his very silence George offered no opposition. She felt hopeful. Nevertheless, his silence betrayed a storm in his brain, a gathering force, fueled by a chaotic internal chemistry that would soon explode and alter their lives. When Gail left home the next morning for her mother’s house, George headed to the neighborhood drugstore for more antacids.