Still Alice Page 0,13
riding a roller coaster with her eyes shut, she couldn’t predict which way she was being turned next.
“Are you feeling more anxious or stressed than typical?”
“Just about not being able to remember things. Otherwise, no.”
“How are things with your husband?”
“Fine.”
“Do you think your mood is pretty good?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think you could be depressed?”
“No.”
Alice knew depression. Following the deaths of her mother and sister when she was eighteen, she’d lost her appetite, she’d been unable to sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time despite being endlessly tired, and she’d lost an interest in enjoying anything. It had lasted a little over a year, and she’d never experienced anything like it since. This was entirely different. This wasn’t a job for Prozac.
“Do you drink alcohol?”
“Just socially.”
“How much?”
“One or two glasses of wine with dinner, maybe a little more on a special occasion.”
“Any drug use?”
“No.”
Dr. Moyer looked at her, thinking. She tapped her pen on her notes as she read them. Alice suspected the answer wasn’t anywhere on that piece of paper.
“So am I in menopause?” she asked as she gripped her parchment-papered seat with both hands.
“Yes. We can run an FSH, but everything you tell me is completely consistent with menopause. The average age of onset is forty-eight to fifty-two, so you’re right in there. You may continue to get a couple of periods a year for a while. That’s perfectly normal.”
“Can estrogen replacement help with the memory problems?”
“We don’t put women on estrogen replacement anymore, unless they’re having sleep disturbances, really awful hot flashes, or they’re already osteoporotic. I don’t think your memory problems are due to menopause.”
The blood rushed from Alice’s head. Precisely the words she’d dreaded and only recently dared to consider. With that one, professionally uttered opinion, her tidy and safe explanation shattered. Something was wrong with her, and she wasn’t sure that she was ready to hear what it was. She fought the impulses growing louder inside her, begging her to either lie down or get the hell out of that examining room immediately.
“Why not?”
“The symptoms of memory disturbances and disorientation listed for menopause are secondary to poor sleep hygiene. Those women aren’t coping well cognitively because they aren’t sleeping. It’s possible that you’re not sleeping as well as you think you are. Perhaps your schedule and jet lag are taking a toll, perhaps you’re worrying about things throughout the night.”
Alice thought about the times she’d suffered from fuzzy thinking caused by bouts of sleep deprivation. She certainly hadn’t played at the top of her mental game during the last weeks of each pregnancy, following the birth of each child, and at times, when she was up against a grant deadline. In none of those circumstances, however, did she get lost in Harvard Square.
“Maybe. Could I suddenly need more sleep because I’m older or because I’m in menopause?”
“No. I don’t usually see that.”
“If it’s not lack of sleep, what are you thinking?” she asked, the clarity and confidence now completely absent from her voice.
“Well, I’m concerned about the disorientation in particular. I don’t think it was a vascular event. I think we should do some tests. I’m going to send you for blood work, a mammogram, and bone density because it’s time, and a brain MRI.”
A brain tumor. She hadn’t even considered that. A new predator loomed in her imagination, and she felt the ingredients of panic once again brewing in her gut.
“If you don’t think it was a stroke, what are you looking for in the MRI?”
“It’s always good to definitively rule these things out. Make the appointment for the MRI and then one to see me right after, and we’ll go over everything.”
Dr. Moyer had avoided answering the question directly, but Alice didn’t push her to reveal her suspicions. And Alice didn’t share her tumor theory. They would both just have to wait and see.
WILLIAM JAMES HALL HOUSED THE departments of psychology, sociology, and social anthropology and was located just beyond the gates of Harvard Yard on Kirkland Street, a region referred to by students as Siberia. Geography, however, was not the most prominent factor that alienated it from the main campus. William James Hall could never be mistaken for any of the stately, classically collegiate structures that adorned the prestigious Yard and housed the freshman dormitories and classes in mathematics, history, and English. It could, however, be mistaken for a parking garage. It possessed no Doric or Corinthian columns, no red brick, no Tiffany stained glass, no spires, no grand