Still Alice Page 0,43
she’s been doing since then?”
“Very well, I think. It’s true about the phone. She won’t answer it at all anymore. Either I get it or she lets the machine pick it up. She’s become glued to her BlackBerry, almost like a compulsion. She sometimes checks it every couple of minutes in the morning before she leaves the house. That’s a little difficult to watch.”
More and more, it seemed he couldn’t bear to look at her. When he did, it was with a clinical eye, like she was one of his lab rats.
“Anything else, anything that Alice may not have mentioned?”
“Nothing I can think of.”
“How’s her mood and personality, any changes you’ve noticed there?”
“No, she’s the same. A little defensive, maybe. And quieter, she doesn’t initiate conversation as much.”
“And how are you doing?”
“Me? I’m fine.”
“I have some information for you to take with you about our caregivers’ support group. Denise Daddario is the social worker here. You should make an appointment with her and just let her know what’s going on.”
“This is an appointment for me?”
“Yes.”
“Really, I don’t need one, I’m fine.”
“Okay, well, these resources are here if you find you come to need them. Now, I have some questions for Alice.”
“Actually, I want to talk about some additional therapies and clinical trials.”
“Okay, let’s do that, but first, let’s finish up her exam. Alice, what day of the week is it?”
“Monday.”
“And when were you born?”
“October eleventh, 1953.”
“Who is the vice president of the United States?”
“Dick Cheney.”
“Okay, now I’m going to tell you a name and address, and you’re going to repeat it back to me. Then, I’m going to ask you to repeat it again later. Ready? John Black, 42 West Street, Brighton.”
“The same as last time.”
“Yes, it is, very good. Can you repeat it back to me now?”
“John Black, 42 West Street, Brighton.”
John Black, 42 West Street, Brighton.
John never wears black, Lydia lives out west, Tom lives in Brighton, eight years ago I was forty-two.
John Black, 42 West Street, Brighton.
“Okay, can you count to twenty forwards and then backwards?”
She did.
“Now, I want you to raise the number of fingers on your left hand which corresponds to the place in the alphabet of the first letter of the city you’re in.”
She repeated what he said in her head and then made the peace sign with her left index and middle fingers.
“Good. Now, what is this thing called on my watch?”
“A clasp.”
“Okay, now write a sentence about today’s weather on this piece of paper.”
It is hazy, hot, and humid.
“On the other side of that paper, draw a clock showing the time as forty-five minutes past three.”
She drew a big circle and filled in the numbers starting at the top with twelve.
“Oops, I made the circle too big.”
She scribbled it out.
3:45
“No, not digital. I’m looking for an analog clock,” said Dr. Davis.
“Well, are you looking to see if I can draw or if I can still tell time? If you draw me a clock face, I can show you 3:45. I’ve never been any good at drawing.”
When Anna was three, she’d loved horses and used to beg Alice to draw pictures of them for her. Alice’s renditions had looked, at best, like postmodern dragon-dogs and always failed to satisfy even the wild and generously accepting imagination of her preschooler. No, Mom, not that, draw me a horse.
“I’m actually looking for both, Alice. Alzheimer’s affects the parietal lobes pretty early on, and that’s where we keep our internal representations of extrapersonal space. John, this is why I want you to go running with her.”
John nodded. They were ganging up on her.
“John, you know I can’t draw.”
“Alice, it’s a clock, not a horse.”
Stunned that he didn’t defend her, she glared at him and raised her eyebrows, giving him a second chance to verify her perfectly valid position. He just stared back at her and spun his ring.
“If you draw me a clock, I’ll show you three forty-five.”
Dr. Davis drew a clock face on a new sheet of paper, and Alice drew the hands pointing to the correct time.
“Okay, now I’d like you to tell me that name and address I asked you to remember earlier.”
“John Black, something West Street, Brighton.”
“Okay, was it forty-two, forty-four, forty-six, or forty-eight?”
“Forty-eight.”
Dr. Davis wrote something lengthy on the piece of paper with the clock.
“John, please stop shaking my chair.”
“Okay, now we can talk about clinical trial options. There are several ongoing studies here and at the Brigham. The one I like the most for you starts enrolling patients this month.