Sunlight filtered through West facing windows fills the fourth floor reception area. Sitting side by side we wait our turn. My partner pops up from the chair and strides to the receptionist.
“You’re a Coyotes fan?” he asks.
“Arizona born and love hockey, have to be a Coyotes fan,” she responds with a chuckle.
“At least they finally broke their losing streak,” he comments, his voice a low counterpoint to her higher tones.
Laughing she answers, “And it only took them eleven games before they won one.”
The nurse calls our name. I gather my purse, and move beside him at the reception desk. With a wave we are whisked through the door. My partner steps on the scale and flashes me a grin when the nurse announces his weight. He’s gained twelve pounds, a milestone proving he’s no longer starving himself. The change required an intervention by our daughter, his son, myself, and his primary care doctor. We intervened, he made the change in mindset. He feels stronger, looks healthier.
The nurse drops us off in Exam Room 1. I ask him why he asked the he receptionist about hockey.
“You didn’t notice her sign? It’s next to her name plate and says, “Arizona born, hockey fan.”
The neurologist escorts us from the exam room to his office for a routine visit. He asks my partner questions about the world today. Who is the president now? Who was the one before? What’s the vice president’s name?
I listen closely for how the doctor cues my partner when he stumbles on an answer. During our more than three years of visits I’ve learned a great deal about cueing rather than telling, nudging rather than pushing or fixing. Today the first question has an immediate answer, the second requires a doctor’s hint and the third results in a stumbling but recognizable first name only.
The doctor demonstrates then asked my partner to touch the index finger on his right hand to the thumb. The finger exercise reminds me of a chirping bird created in a shadow play. My partner puts his middle finger to the thumb instead. It takes two corrections and demonstrations before he manages. The left hand completes the task quickly and correctly the first time. The doctor repeats the exercise each time we visit, this was the first time for confusion about the directions, about the names of fingers.
Doctor and patient adjourn to the hallway for ‘the walk.’ My partner looks forward to the walk, a chance to demonstrate how walking every day, practicing a balance several times a day, working out a few times week and consuming enough calories has strengthened his body. The doctor’s properly impressed and congratulates him on improving his flexibility, balance and the quality of his walk.
The session draws to a close. The doctor asks me how I think my partner is doing. I explain the meaning of the weight gain, the way eating enough changed his energy level and his attitude. Life’s better.
He asks my partner if he has questions or anything he wants to add.
“I have something I want to say,” he answers. The silence feels heavy in the room. I realize I’m holding my breath. I know what comes next and release my breath in a silent sigh. He asks the question each time we see the doctor. Each time his question hurts my heart a little more.
“The short-term memory loss is getting worse.” He sounds confused, as though the truth is unbelievable. I understand magical thinking. He believes if he follows directions, takes the medicine, eats enough to live, reads the paper everyday things will turn out okay. He can regain the person he was.
The doctor scoots his chair so he and my partner look directly into each other’s eyes, another skill I’ve learned from him when delivering information I hope will be remembered. “The drugs slow the loss of memory, they can’t stop it or return what you have lost.”
My partner nods, the doctor asks us to set the next appointment for four months. We navigate the hallway to the reception area, set the appointment with the hockey fan. As we climb on the elevator for the four floor drop I comment, “Doctor was impressed with your walk.”
“Yes. He said I’m even swinging my arms naturally when I walk. Something I didn’t do before the drugs and the exercise.””
“This was a good visit, a good report. That’s two in a row. Your primary care doctor was impressed with your weight gain.”
We climb in the car and he comments, “A good report deserves a treat. How about we drive through for ‘elevenses’ a little early.”
“Great idea.”
As we motor from doctor’s office to coffee drive-through I mentally assemble the pieces of the doctor visit into a mosaic. My partner’s charm and kindness in noticing the receptionist’s sign and speaking to her of a subject she enjoys. A moment she could look away from the computer screen and interact with a charming human instead. The doctor’s patience and kindness in the way he answers the same question each visit. The light in my partner’s eyes when convincing me we should have his favorite snack early today, a good report deserves a treat. The mosaic is a way for me to hold the memory of a time when our world held kindness, patience and charm. A moment when the charming man I married used the time spent in a doctor’s waiting room to charm a stranger and possibly brighten her day.
As I order lattes and we drive toward home, I acknowledge I purposefully store memories because he can’t. As the disease steals first short term and then older memories I gather the pieces up in a bundle in my heart. When the memories are gone from him I’ll have them to remind me of the love and life we shared for so many years.