August 27th, 2008
JerryAnn
I recognize Dr. Reese instantly. His smile is huge. His white coat hangs over a Hawaiian shirt, a stethoscope draped like a lei around his neck. His bald, shiny head turns toward me as he reaches out his hand and shakes mine vigorously. “Ten years, Jerry.” He shakes his head from side to side then releases my hand. “I haven’t seen you in ten years, but I was intrigued.” He leans in like he wants to say more. I let him talk. “JerryAnn Rice, greatest basketball star to ever come out of Albuquerque, New Mexico.” He reaches his palms upward dramatically. “Of course I’m gonna see you.”
He gestures for me to sit down on the exam table. “I’m sorry about your torn Achilles. It looks like your boot is off. How long ago did that happen?”
“About a week ago.” The day I walked to the donut shop from work. The day I met Toby and something in me cracked.
He washes his hands in the sink and then stands in front of me. “So, what’s up?” He grabs his stethoscope, but I interrupt before he can ask me to take a deep breath. “I don’t need an exam.” Sick of doctors, physical therapists, and nurses, I glare at the stethoscope.
Dr. Reese sags with disappointment.
I shrug. “I have a sports physician.”
“Yeah, I know, but you’re here. I’m a doctor.” His eyes scan me. “If you don’t want an exam, why are you here?” He pulls his wheely chair close, cocks his head to one side, and waits, leaning forward.
I whisper, “I think I’m autistic.”
“I see.” Dr. Reese looks like he’s going to laugh…but he always looks like he’s going to laugh. “What makes you think you’re autistic?”
“I have trouble understanding what other people are feeling. I’m not great with social cues. I only participate in one thing—basketball—and that consists of repetitive behaviors. I’m not great at conversations and focus only on one special interest.”
Dr. Reese nods his head throughout.
I’m here for one reason: Toby called me a robot.
“You’re right, those describe some of the characteristics of autism spectrum disorder in adults.”
I let out a breath. So, I’m not a robot. I’m autistic.
“Let me guess. You’ve been doing internet research?”
Yep, every day for the last week. I nod.
“Traditionally, autism is most often diagnosed in children, and you came to me because you think I might have insights within your medical records or even memories of you to substantiate your findings?”
“Yes.” I know I did the right thing coming to him. He forgot to diagnose me. Autism is increasingly more common now than it was twenty years ago.
“Well, Jerry.” He stands and pats me on the back. “Congratulations, you’re not autistic.” He sits down and spins a full circle in his chair.
“Whoa, wait. I have all the signs.” I should be relieved, but I’m not. But I don’t have feelings, so maybe I am?
“Jerry, your mom brought you in every time you got a cut, scrape, bloody nose, sniffles, twisted ankle. I thought about starting a frequent fliers club for you.”
Mom hardly noticed me as a kid, but considering I haven’t been here in ten years, this office is still familiar.
Dr. Reese clears his throat. “I was young, unmarried, starting a new practice in a new town.” He lowers his voice, embarrassed. “Until your Dad brought you in when you needed stitches, I thought your mom was single.”
Understanding washes over me. Mom was young, beautiful, opportunistic, and is married to a doctor now. But this is not about Mom, it’s about me. “Dr. Reese, that doesn’t prove I’m not autistic, it just shows how distracted you were at my exams.”
“Your mom insisted you have autism screenings. You probably don’t remember them, but you were screened twice. Once as a toddler, and again in first grade. She was convinced there was something wrong because you didn’t play with dolls or wear fancy clothes.” He shrugs. “Jerry, you’re not autistic.”
Dr. Reese smiles and then talks to me about autism and how girls are often more difficult to diagnose, but I tune him out. If I’m not autistic, what’s wrong with me?
He tells me about the time I ripped off his toupee and petted it like a cat, and in the telling he laughs until tears fall down his cheeks. It’s a funny story, but I don’t laugh, and I can’t remember the last time I laughed that hard.
Toby’s right. I am a robot.
“Funny thing is, after the toupee incident, your Mom didn’t bring you in for exams as often.” He wipes tears from his eyes, then looks at me seriously. “Jerry, you always looked me in the eyes, laughed, cried, even told jokes. I was heartbroken when you left for your fancy sports medicine doctor.” He stands. “If you’re autistic, then I’m a quadriplegic.” He taps his feet and does jazz hands.
My smile is halfhearted. “Then what’s wrong with me?” Autism was an answer, now what?
“Why do you think there’s something wrong?”
“I’m a robot.” It’s Toby’s fault, his words, the way his warm brown eyes conveyed pity.
Dr. Reese leans forward, his expression serious, kind, very un-robot-like. “What makes you say that?”
“I don’t cry during sad movies. I hardly laugh. I don’t get upset when guys dump me.”
“Did you cry when you ruptured your Achilles?”
“No.”
“Wow, I’ve seen grown men cry from that injury.” He leans forward. “When was the last time you cried?”
“I was ten years old at a UNM basketball game when I spilled my popcorn in the bleachers. A point guard made a jump shot and landed wrong. She fell to the ground. Dad said, ‘Look, Jerry, she’s hurt, but she’s not crying. Don’t you want to be tough, like her?’ I swallowed my tears, ate the remaining popcorn, and decided to be her—a tough basketball player.”
“Hmm.” Dr. Reese narrows his eyes. The smile and twinkle have faded. “Did anything else major happen around that time?”
“No.” I remember the scene perfectly.
“Was your mom there?”
“No.” Sports are my thing with Dad.
“I’m not a psychologist, psychiatrist, or counselor, but when our minds cling to a situation in the past, it’s often because a major event or trauma is attached to the memory. Maybe there’s something you’re missing?”
“No.” I’m confident. It was a life-changing moment for me. “It was the day I decided to be a ball player. That’s pretty significant.”
“True.” He leans back a little in his spinny chair. “What about your life now? Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No. I had one six months ago. He dumped me. Said I was heartless.” I caught him making out with my roommate on my bed. When I didn’t react, he called me heartless. Isn’t he the heartless one? The fact is, being dumped hadn’t bothered me, and until Toby called me a robot, it hadn’t bothered me that it didn’t bother me.
“What about friends?” When I don’t answer immediately, he continues. “People you hang out with, talk to or text with on the phone, that sort of thing.”
Funny—he has to define friends for me. Before my injury, my friends were my team and no one else mattered.
“I have Cate.” Cate’s thirteen—my Dad’s girlfriend’s daughter. “Aside from her, my friends were my team, but I’m benched for the year, so I’m taking a year off from school. They used to check up on me, but I don’t hear from them anymore.”
“That must hurt.”
“No.” You have to have feelings to have hurt feelings. “I work full-time as a shift manager and meet people that way.” My co-workers don’t do anything with me outside of work.
He’s nodding, studying me and I don’t know what he sees. “I imagine you went from being so busy you never had time to think to having more time than you know what to do with?”
Without my morning run, classes, homework, practice before class, practice after class, practice after work, and evening games, I don’t know who I am anymore.
I don’t respond.
“You’ve devoted your life to being a great basketball player, and you are one, but given your injury, maybe it’s time to devote some time to developing other interests.”
Other interests? Hasn’t he been listening? My fists clench. “Basketball is my only interest.” And then I get it—as a doctor, he doesn’t think I’ll recover, that I should explore other options for my future. I narrow my eyes. “If you’re saying you don’t think I’ll recover, you’re wrong.” Heat rushes to my face, and my voice gets louder. I point my finger at his chest below me. “I’m young. I’m hard-working. I’m a fast healer and I’m doing everything my doctors and physical therapists tell me to do.”
Dr. Reese leans back, hands up in surrender. “Whoa, Jerry, that’s not what I’m saying at all. What I’m saying is that you’ve been given a rare opportunity.” It takes him a minute to find his words. “The way you just talked about basketball was impassioned and emotional. You didn’t sound like a robot. If you can get emotional about basketball and your future, don’t you think it’s time to figure out what else you’re passionate about? Don’t you think it’s time to feel that way about a boyfriend, or a hobby, or friends, or movies?” Pause. Sigh. “You have focused on one thing and repressed your emotions for so long, it’s become a habit not to feel.” He taps my shoulder. “There’s more to you than basketball and being tough, and you deserve to cry and laugh, to be happy and sad. You deserve to feel all the feels.”
Is there more to me than being tough and playing basketball? And even if I am capable of feeling, do I want all the feels?
Dr. Reese leans back, spins around in his chair, and opens a drawer, grabbing a form to assess my mental health and whether I have suicidal tendencies.
I answer every question honestly. I don’t have suicidal feelings, but I don’t have feelings. When the list is finished, I’m peering at my fingers, lying motionless in my lap, and I would rather be autistic than have to learn how to feel.
Dr. Reese’s body language and the gentleness of his voice reflect genuine concern as he refers me to a counselor. The exam ends with a hug, and Dr. Reese laughs, promising to find his toupee.
I drive home, park at my apartment complex, check my watch, and walk to Cate’s school. My phone rings. It’s my mom, but I’m hesitant to answer. I have more of a kinship with Toby than I do with my mother.