Pen poised over the notebook, where Sandy had written the date and Dr. Gardner’s name after she had already written Dr. O’Brien’s name and crossed through it. Maybe she was losing it. She looked straight ahead, and not at her father. His leg, once again, started bobbing up and down nervously.
Hank rarely acted nervously, even during what was called the trial of the century, where he successfully prosecuted a large appliance manufacturer for selling laundry dryers with a known defect in their design. It was a multi-million dollar victory at a time when multi-million dollars meant something. On the day of the verdict, he had gone for his usual 3-mile jog in the morning to warm up and did some light weightlifting before showering and managing to inhale his breakfast and two cups of coffee. He had dressed the same as any other day, suit, tie, and polished wing tips; the look of the successful attorney that he was. No change in routine, no change in demeanor.
Even after the verdict was announced and the large windfall for his clients, or at least the members of the family who survived the house fire. He did not flinch, pump his fists, or do any of the things they do in the movies. He was like the famed Dallas Cowboys coach Tom Landry, when his team came from behind to win the game in the final seconds. No reaction. The reporter who called it the trial of the century made that comparison when documenting the story.
Those who knew Hank, or worked for him, would expect nothing less. The next day, he would do it all again for another client and would continue his law practice all the way until a year after Karen’s diagnosis. It became painfully apparent that she needed care. He had loved Karen with a devotion that was evident. After the love of his wife, he loved the practice of law, and after that were his three children, one of whom reached out her arm once more and gently rested her hand on Hank’s bouncing knee.
“Hank.” The door swung wide after two quick courtesy knocks. They hadn’t even had time to respond to the knocks when Dr. Gardner burst in. He had invited her to call him Hank after they had worked through the whole female Dr., male patient ordeal. He had told her, unashamedly, that she belonged to a very exclusive club; there are only two women in his life who have ever seen him au naturel. Those are the words he used, complete with French pronunciation. She told him that she was honored, and that’s when all pretense was gone, and he told her to knock off the “Mr. Peterson” or “Counselor” nonsense.
Responsively, he rose to shake her hand, which she did, maintaining eye contact and her cheerful smile. He had fully expected the empathy smile that doctors often wore, unknowingly, when delivering bad news. She was different.
“Thanks for seeing us,” Sandy said. Dr. Gardener turned and smiled at her.
“I wish this were just another physical, but I appreciate you joining your dad today.” Turning to Hank, “Hank, is it ok for us to discuss your health completely in the presence of your daughter?”
“Of course. She drew the short straw, and because she was with her mother years ago, I figured she would be a natural.”
“Great. Why don’t you tell me a little about what’s going on?”
Between Sandy and Hank, they brought the doctor up to speed on the general confusion that they had witnessed, and the strange call from Hank disoriented and far from home. She was taking notes on a pad with a pen, and not an iPad or laptop. She didn’t want to go through all that again with Hank and thought it best not to agitate him at this point. He had counseled her on how impersonal the barrier of technology was between patient and doctor, and how the same applies to client and attorney. She tried to explain the efficiency of her technique using the laptop and how it would streamline her notes into the system. “But I am not your system, I am a patient, sitting before you, asking for your expertise.” He was old-fashioned and still had a Rolodex on his desk at home with all the important phone numbers in his life.
She pulled out a clipboard with a two-sided piece of paper on it with a bunch of words and pictures. She also had a blank piece of paper and a clipboard for Hank.
“Now, I’m going to say three words to you that are unrelated, and I would like you to repeat them back to me and remember them. Can you do that?”
“I hope so.”
“Good, here we go: village, kitchen, baby.”
“village, kitchen, baby.”
“Very good.” She made a notation on the yellow legal pad upon which she took notes for Hank. All other patients were electronic. “Please tell me today’s day and date?”
“May…” Henry paused and looked at his daughter, either for help or at least a kind face. “… 12th?” he phrased it as a question, much like the way his teenage granddaughter spoke.
Another note on the legal pad. “The 15th,” Dr. Gardner reminded him. “What is the day of the week?”
He felt like it was a Monday because he was sure that he had gone to Mass yesterday, but Monday was golf day, and here he was sitting in this office with his daughter and this lady trying to answer her inane questions. “Tuesday,” he said with more certainty than he felt, watching for any facial cues to see if he got it right.
More notes on the pad.
“Can you repeat back to me the three words I asked you to remember?”
Sandy shifted in her chair. She instantly recalled this part of the cognitive test with her mother. who could only remember one. For Sandy, this was the moment of truth. Hank stared straight ahead as if the diagram of the digestive system hanging on the wall in front of him held the clues.
“vegetable, chicken, baby.”
Hank felt like he was at the eye doctor’s office and being asked to read the bottom line. He had a pretty good idea of which letters were printed, but he had to admit most were guesses.
More notes on the legal pad.
“Hank, will you please use the paper and pen that I have provided to draw the face of a clock, with all of the numbers on it?” Her smile seemed to dim a bit, but she never lost eye contact.
Hank immediately drew a fairly good circle, although it was a bit oblong (he was an attorney, not an architect). The number 12 was at the top of the circle, and he wrote in consecutive order the numbers 1 through 11 within the circle; however, they went in a counterclockwise fashion, where 3 was at what should be 9.
“On the clock face, will you please draw the hands to indicate the time to be 10 minutes after 10?”
For the first time since this exam began, she looked to Sandy. She confirmed the worst with nothing more than an expression that contained so many things: I’m sorry, this is bad, I hope you have help, life with your father will never be the same.