from the folder and hands me a pencil. “I’d like you to draw a regular clock, put in all the numbers and indicate the time as ten past eleven.”
I draw a circle and then wish I had a sticky to remind me of the time. “What time did you say again?”
“Ten past eleven.”
I’m dismayed. “I’m not much of an artist,” I say, stalling for time to gather my thoughts.
“Mom, it’s not an art contest,” Bryan says. “Just do the clock.”
I sigh and look at the piece of blank paper. “Of course.”
Then I notice a clock on the far wall. With the devious half-smile of one who’s found a way around the system, I copy the clock, my eyes flitting back and forth between my drawing and my model. I worry over my pencil, spilling my breath upon the paper in little puffs of concentration.
I draw my clock.
Even with cheating, I know my drawing is more than pitiful. I’m aware something is terribly wrong, but like everything else these days, I can’t figure out how I could be so mistaken. I reach out for another piece of paper.
“No… really, this is very good. You did just fine.”
Dr. Ellison takes the paper with my clock and my breath captured upon it and places it on the table. I look at Bryan and notice him looking from my drawing to the face of his watch. His mouth turns slim and rigid.
Dr. Ellison tucks my sad drawing into a pocket in the manila folder and softly folds it closed.
She looks up and fixes her face into a smile. “Next, I’d like you to count backwards from one hundred by sevens,” she says, her voice inappropriately animated for what she has just asked of me.
“Count backwards? From a hundred? I can try,” I say, speaking slowly, while silently screaming to heaven for help on this one teensy request. “One hundred… ninety… umm.” I roll my eyes and look toward the ceiling; heaven is clearly deaf. I begin to feel a prickle of embarrassment in my stomach.
“Oh, dear,” I say. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at this. Actually, I’m really awful. That’s what those… those little things that make numbers are for. You know those little things that do this, uh, whatever you call it. Um, math! Subtraction! That’s it… minus. Minus. Minus.” I realize I’ve slumped in my chair and try to straighten my shoulders. “I’ve always been terrible with math. But really, I’m very good at finding words.”
“That’s right, you were a writer,” the doctor says. “Many people aren’t very good with numbers… so, let’s switch to words, then. Do you recall the three items I asked you to remember when we first started?”
“Three items?”
“Yes. I asked you to remember three items.”
“Of course. Yes. Three items. One was a… oh, I know this. It was a shoe, right? And another was, ahhh… was it a tree? You said there were three words? Oh my, I guess I really wasn’t paying attention. Can you give me another three words? Shouldn’t we try this again?”
“No, that’s fine, Mrs. Glidden. You did just fine. Just fine.” The doctor pats my arm; I know she’s using her hand as a sad offering of consolation.
I also know I’m in trouble.
Failure has rented space in my brain and the payment I receive in exchange is a condescending pat on the arm, followed by a conversation that suddenly turns into talk about me as if I’m no longer in the room. I watch my son as the outer corners of his eyes dip downward and his lips disappear into the landscape of his face like he’s beginning to fold inside-out.
YOU TAKE. You take the news with surprising calm. Rather than screaming into the caverns inside your head, you sit like a lady, your hands folded on your lap. People talk around you like you’re invisible, but it doesn’t matter what anyone says. You look at your hands while you calmly listen to their words. Words like, “Evidence of mild cognitive impairment.” Then, “Your mother is relatively young, perhaps early-onset Alzheimer’s disease.” And,
I draw a circle and then wish I had a sticky to remind me of the time. “What time did you say again?”
“Ten past eleven.”
I’m dismayed. “I’m not much of an artist,” I say, stalling for time to gather my thoughts.
“Mom, it’s not an art contest,” Bryan says. “Just do the clock.”
I sigh and look at the piece of blank paper. “Of course.”
Then I notice a clock on the far wall. With the devious half-smile of one who’s found a way around the system, I copy the clock, my eyes flitting back and forth between my drawing and my model. I worry over my pencil, spilling my breath upon the paper in little puffs of concentration.
I draw my clock.
Even with cheating, I know my drawing is more than pitiful. I’m aware something is terribly wrong, but like everything else these days, I can’t figure out how I could be so mistaken. I reach out for another piece of paper.
“No… really, this is very good. You did just fine.”
Dr. Ellison takes the paper with my clock and my breath captured upon it and places it on the table. I look at Bryan and notice him looking from my drawing to the face of his watch. His mouth turns slim and rigid.
Dr. Ellison tucks my sad drawing into a pocket in the manila folder and softly folds it closed.
She looks up and fixes her face into a smile. “Next, I’d like you to count backwards from one hundred by sevens,” she says, her voice inappropriately animated for what she has just asked of me.
“Count backwards? From a hundred? I can try,” I say, speaking slowly, while silently screaming to heaven for help on this one teensy request. “One hundred… ninety… umm.” I roll my eyes and look toward the ceiling; heaven is clearly deaf. I begin to feel a prickle of embarrassment in my stomach.
“Oh, dear,” I say. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at this. Actually, I’m really awful. That’s what those… those little things that make numbers are for. You know those little things that do this, uh, whatever you call it. Um, math! Subtraction! That’s it… minus. Minus. Minus.” I realize I’ve slumped in my chair and try to straighten my shoulders. “I’ve always been terrible with math. But really, I’m very good at finding words.”
“That’s right, you were a writer,” the doctor says. “Many people aren’t very good with numbers… so, let’s switch to words, then. Do you recall the three items I asked you to remember when we first started?”
“Three items?”
“Yes. I asked you to remember three items.”
“Of course. Yes. Three items. One was a… oh, I know this. It was a shoe, right? And another was, ahhh… was it a tree? You said there were three words? Oh my, I guess I really wasn’t paying attention. Can you give me another three words? Shouldn’t we try this again?”
“No, that’s fine, Mrs. Glidden. You did just fine. Just fine.” The doctor pats my arm; I know she’s using her hand as a sad offering of consolation.
I also know I’m in trouble.
Failure has rented space in my brain and the payment I receive in exchange is a condescending pat on the arm, followed by a conversation that suddenly turns into talk about me as if I’m no longer in the room. I watch my son as the outer corners of his eyes dip downward and his lips disappear into the landscape of his face like he’s beginning to fold inside-out.
YOU TAKE. You take the news with surprising calm. Rather than screaming into the caverns inside your head, you sit like a lady, your hands folded on your lap. People talk around you like you’re invisible, but it doesn’t matter what anyone says. You look at your hands while you calmly listen to their words. Words like, “Evidence of mild cognitive impairment.” Then, “Your mother is relatively young, perhaps early-onset Alzheimer’s disease.” And,
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