Friday, November 22, 2002
Doctor Gonzales, a lovely young woman, is examining my brother, Ed. We are in Highland Hospital, Oakland, Emergency Room #2. I've brought Ed here because he is acting strangely — that is, more strangely than usual — and because his left side is weak. When Ed undresses for the doctor, I see the left leg is much thinner — atrophied — so this left side weakness is nothing new.
The lovely young woman stands before my naked older brother and listens to his heart and lungs. She tells him to bend over, and she gives him a rectal exam. Ed shouts a string of obscenities.
Matter-of-factly, Doctor Gonzales peels off her gloves and says, "You didn't like that?"
"NO!"
She sends Ed off on a gurney to get a CT scan. When he returns, he and I wait for the results. We are sharing Emergency Room #2 with a woman who attempted suicide via overdose. Unlike Ed, nobody is with her. Also unlike Ed, she is held by restraints.
We wait from 4 p.m. until 8:15 p.m. There are bodies unattended on gurneys in hallways, looking like they've been there for days.
Ed is in the early stages of dementia. He denies that there is anything wrong with him, and he gets angry at me when I try to help him. Still, I'm here. It's my job. Family is a job, and it lasts for a lifetime.
If you ever met my brother — even in his dementia — you would describe him as one of the smartest people you ever met. And at the moments you least expected, funny.
Ed lies on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I talk with him about London, the Rolling Stones, Italy, Prague — about all of which he is lucid — but he can’t remember what happened earlier today, how the neighbors were worried, how they called me, how I brought him here in my pickup truck.
Doc Gonzales returns at last. Speaking to me, not Ed, she says the CT scan shows no new stroke, just a bunch of old strokes. There's no hemorrhagic bleeding. An illness such as a cold or bladder infection can cause the reappearance of previous stroke symptoms.
Now Doctor Gonzales speaks directly to Ed: "I'd like to ask you some questions."
Ed nods.
"Do you know what year this is?"
"Um. Nineteen eighty-eight."
"It's two thousand and two. Do you know what month it is?"
"December?"
"It's November. November twenty-second."
"They shot him."
"Who shot who?"
"The President. They shot him."
I feel a chill. Like Ed, I can never forget this date. On November 22, 1963, John F. Kennedy was shot. I was 16 years old, idealistic, hopeful. Ed was 20. And Doctor Gonzales hadn't even been born yet.
Like any sane person of the time, Ed never believed that the assassination was the work of one man. "They shot him," he says again.
"Okay." Doctor Gonzales asks Ed some simple arithmetic questions, and some memorization questions. After Ed has flunked every test, she says, “You see, Ed, this is why people think you are confused. It’s very common for people in your condition not to recognize it themselves.”
The words seem to sink in, and Ed looks surprised and sad.
In a moment, though, he'll forget. That's the beauty of dementia.
Doctor Gonzales leaves the room, and a nurse comes in. "I can discharge you," she says to Ed. "I just have to make sure you aren't too disoriented."
Ed stares at her blankly.
The nurse says, "Can you tell me who is president of the United States?"
Ed frowns. He's just been through this.
Again the nurse asks, "Who is president?"
"That turd," Ed says.
"Does that turd have a name?"
"Uh…"
The nurse makes a note on a chart and says, "It's Bush. George Bush."
"That's what I said."
"Hmm. Do you know where you are now?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"I'm in the FUCKING HOSPITAL!"
The nurse smiles. "Okay. You can go home now."
Doctor Gonzales, a lovely young woman, is examining my brother, Ed. We are in Highland Hospital, Oakland, Emergency Room #2. I've brought Ed here because he is acting strangely — that is, more strangely than usual — and because his left side is weak. When Ed undresses for the doctor, I see the left leg is much thinner — atrophied — so this left side weakness is nothing new.
The lovely young woman stands before my naked older brother and listens to his heart and lungs. She tells him to bend over, and she gives him a rectal exam. Ed shouts a string of obscenities.
Matter-of-factly, Doctor Gonzales peels off her gloves and says, "You didn't like that?"
"NO!"
She sends Ed off on a gurney to get a CT scan. When he returns, he and I wait for the results. We are sharing Emergency Room #2 with a woman who attempted suicide via overdose. Unlike Ed, nobody is with her. Also unlike Ed, she is held by restraints.
We wait from 4 p.m. until 8:15 p.m. There are bodies unattended on gurneys in hallways, looking like they've been there for days.
Ed is in the early stages of dementia. He denies that there is anything wrong with him, and he gets angry at me when I try to help him. Still, I'm here. It's my job. Family is a job, and it lasts for a lifetime.
If you ever met my brother — even in his dementia — you would describe him as one of the smartest people you ever met. And at the moments you least expected, funny.
Ed lies on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I talk with him about London, the Rolling Stones, Italy, Prague — about all of which he is lucid — but he can’t remember what happened earlier today, how the neighbors were worried, how they called me, how I brought him here in my pickup truck.
Doc Gonzales returns at last. Speaking to me, not Ed, she says the CT scan shows no new stroke, just a bunch of old strokes. There's no hemorrhagic bleeding. An illness such as a cold or bladder infection can cause the reappearance of previous stroke symptoms.
Now Doctor Gonzales speaks directly to Ed: "I'd like to ask you some questions."
Ed nods.
"Do you know what year this is?"
"Um. Nineteen eighty-eight."
"It's two thousand and two. Do you know what month it is?"
"December?"
"It's November. November twenty-second."
"They shot him."
"Who shot who?"
"The President. They shot him."
I feel a chill. Like Ed, I can never forget this date. On November 22, 1963, John F. Kennedy was shot. I was 16 years old, idealistic, hopeful. Ed was 20. And Doctor Gonzales hadn't even been born yet.
Like any sane person of the time, Ed never believed that the assassination was the work of one man. "They shot him," he says again.
"Okay." Doctor Gonzales asks Ed some simple arithmetic questions, and some memorization questions. After Ed has flunked every test, she says, “You see, Ed, this is why people think you are confused. It’s very common for people in your condition not to recognize it themselves.”
The words seem to sink in, and Ed looks surprised and sad.
In a moment, though, he'll forget. That's the beauty of dementia.
Doctor Gonzales leaves the room, and a nurse comes in. "I can discharge you," she says to Ed. "I just have to make sure you aren't too disoriented."
Ed stares at her blankly.
The nurse says, "Can you tell me who is president of the United States?"
Ed frowns. He's just been through this.
Again the nurse asks, "Who is president?"
"That turd," Ed says.
"Does that turd have a name?"
"Uh…"
The nurse makes a note on a chart and says, "It's Bush. George Bush."
"That's what I said."
"Hmm. Do you know where you are now?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"I'm in the FUCKING HOSPITAL!"
The nurse smiles. "Okay. You can go home now."
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