settles upon us as
I try to understand. The doctor notices my gaze and peers over his shoulder, or
perhaps he hears it too. “Yes, that. It's a disgrace really. I did have a
secretary, but she ran off with an ex-patient last month. Dratted flowers are
dying everywhere.”
“Don't secretaries type letters and such?”
“Yes, but she had this idea about 'cheering the place up'. I
agreed with her so long as she promised to water them, which she did...until
she left. I'm afraid now, the only ones that get maintained are those the
patient's care for outside of this office. Now I have to write my own letters,
so I have even less time than before, never mind time for watering darned
plants.” He mumbles something under his breath about women, plants and the
workplace. He looks up at me. “I don't suppose you can recommend a good maid,
perhaps?”
I shake my head in the negative.
“Shame, I'm considering employing from abroad-”
“About this memory loss, doctor...”
He perks up, and rearranges his glasses, forgetting about
his lack of secretary and maid.
“Yes, a most troubling yet fascinating trick of the mind.
Truly, it never ceases to amaze me how the brain can protect itself, like a
caterpillar in a cocoon. Let me...” He trails off, fiddling about with
something underneath his desk. Eventually he pulls out a gold bell. Slamming
his hand upon it, he looks at me triumphantly.
“Now, what did I just do, Stanbury?”
“You rang a bell.” What is he doing?
He smiles and bangs it again.
“And now? What did I do?”
“Well, erm...” I look around me, not sure of his point. “You
rang it again, I suppose.”
“Did I?”
“Yes, you did.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I saw you do it, and I heard the bell.”
“Yes!” The doctor becomes animated, and jumps from his seat.
He takes a bow. “And why do you suppose you saw and heard me ring the bell?”
I remain silent, as he laughs at the expression on my face.
“It is not a trick question, Stanbury. You heard it because
you are awake. You are in a strong state of consciousness. Now,” he draws a
circle in the air above his head. “Tell me, did you dream last night?”
“Well, I...” I realize I haven't the faintest idea.
“You're going to tell me you don't remember, aren't you.” He
smiles.
“Well,” I say, nodding. “Yes. I mean no, I'm afraid I don’t
remember at all.”
“Do you suppose you dreamed of me, ringing a bell?”
“I doubt it, Doctor.”
He sits and interlaces his hands underneath his face,
scratching at his beard.
“But nobody remembers their dreams, doctor. I don't
understand the relation of this to the...am-whats-sit”
“A comparison Stanbury. The mind. Bear with me. When you
first wake up, do you ever get that feeling, or even a slight memory of
something? And yet the harder you search your brain to try to catch it, it is
gone with the rising of the sun, and before an hour is out you forget it even
existed?”
“Yes.”
“That’s it. I'm glad you understand. Because this is the
reason your wife doesn't remember anything.”
“Because of a dream?”
“Basically, in its most simple terms, yes. Oh, I could talk
all morning about consciousness and nerve cells and pathology and physiology
until you're half crazy yourself, but I shan't subject you to that. You will
remember me ringing this bell for weeks, months, possibly years to come,
because you are in a conscious state. However, when you are asleep, you are in
an unconscious state. The latter is not conducive to memory, and for good
reason. Can you imagine what would happen to us if when we went to sleep of a
night; we woke up with seven, eight hours worth of memory of things that didn't
really happen, except in our own minds?”
I can't, no. It sounds ridiculous to me, and I say so.
“Well, that’s the reason we don’t, Stanbury.” Satisfied, he
leans back on his chair and grins at me. “Although it occurs to me now, that
that could be
I try to understand. The doctor notices my gaze and peers over his shoulder, or
perhaps he hears it too. “Yes, that. It's a disgrace really. I did have a
secretary, but she ran off with an ex-patient last month. Dratted flowers are
dying everywhere.”
“Don't secretaries type letters and such?”
“Yes, but she had this idea about 'cheering the place up'. I
agreed with her so long as she promised to water them, which she did...until
she left. I'm afraid now, the only ones that get maintained are those the
patient's care for outside of this office. Now I have to write my own letters,
so I have even less time than before, never mind time for watering darned
plants.” He mumbles something under his breath about women, plants and the
workplace. He looks up at me. “I don't suppose you can recommend a good maid,
perhaps?”
I shake my head in the negative.
“Shame, I'm considering employing from abroad-”
“About this memory loss, doctor...”
He perks up, and rearranges his glasses, forgetting about
his lack of secretary and maid.
“Yes, a most troubling yet fascinating trick of the mind.
Truly, it never ceases to amaze me how the brain can protect itself, like a
caterpillar in a cocoon. Let me...” He trails off, fiddling about with
something underneath his desk. Eventually he pulls out a gold bell. Slamming
his hand upon it, he looks at me triumphantly.
“Now, what did I just do, Stanbury?”
“You rang a bell.” What is he doing?
He smiles and bangs it again.
“And now? What did I do?”
“Well, erm...” I look around me, not sure of his point. “You
rang it again, I suppose.”
“Did I?”
“Yes, you did.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I saw you do it, and I heard the bell.”
“Yes!” The doctor becomes animated, and jumps from his seat.
He takes a bow. “And why do you suppose you saw and heard me ring the bell?”
I remain silent, as he laughs at the expression on my face.
“It is not a trick question, Stanbury. You heard it because
you are awake. You are in a strong state of consciousness. Now,” he draws a
circle in the air above his head. “Tell me, did you dream last night?”
“Well, I...” I realize I haven't the faintest idea.
“You're going to tell me you don't remember, aren't you.” He
smiles.
“Well,” I say, nodding. “Yes. I mean no, I'm afraid I don’t
remember at all.”
“Do you suppose you dreamed of me, ringing a bell?”
“I doubt it, Doctor.”
He sits and interlaces his hands underneath his face,
scratching at his beard.
“But nobody remembers their dreams, doctor. I don't
understand the relation of this to the...am-whats-sit”
“A comparison Stanbury. The mind. Bear with me. When you
first wake up, do you ever get that feeling, or even a slight memory of
something? And yet the harder you search your brain to try to catch it, it is
gone with the rising of the sun, and before an hour is out you forget it even
existed?”
“Yes.”
“That’s it. I'm glad you understand. Because this is the
reason your wife doesn't remember anything.”
“Because of a dream?”
“Basically, in its most simple terms, yes. Oh, I could talk
all morning about consciousness and nerve cells and pathology and physiology
until you're half crazy yourself, but I shan't subject you to that. You will
remember me ringing this bell for weeks, months, possibly years to come,
because you are in a conscious state. However, when you are asleep, you are in
an unconscious state. The latter is not conducive to memory, and for good
reason. Can you imagine what would happen to us if when we went to sleep of a
night; we woke up with seven, eight hours worth of memory of things that didn't
really happen, except in our own minds?”
I can't, no. It sounds ridiculous to me, and I say so.
“Well, that’s the reason we don’t, Stanbury.” Satisfied, he
leans back on his chair and grins at me. “Although it occurs to me now, that
that could be
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