25. Rickie #2
“Thank you. I didn’t take any of those exams, but I did everything else. That’s why I lawyered up in the first place, to get the credits.”
She looks down at a note on her pad. “You took chemistry, an intro to psych, a math class, a course on Chaucer, and Spanish. You got credit for courses you don't remember taking.”
“They couldn’t have predicted my memory loss at the time,” I point out.
“Right. That's why it didn't seem strange to me the first time I read it.”
“And now it does?”
She frowns, and I feel a tingle of awareness at the back of my neck. “A month or so ago, you and I got off on a tangent about liminality in The Canterbury Tales .”
I chuckle. “Sure, yeah. It’s more fun to talk about Chaucer than about myself.”
“Right.” She smiles. “When’s the first time you read Chaucer?”
“Like, any of it?” I ask. “I have no idea.”
“Did you read The Canterbury Tales in high school?”
I’m sweating now and I don’t even know why. “Those stories are everywhere. They’re referenced in a million other works of literature.”
“Uh huh. But you can quote from “The Knight’s Tale” in Middle English.”
It’s starting to hit me what Lenore is saying. “You think I remember some of that class.”
“You remember Chaucer,” she says carefully. “But not sitting in the class.”
“Right,” I agree. “Or the professor’s name. Yeah. Okay, that's weird. Head injuries are weird.”
“Yours is especially weird,” she says.
“In what way?” I demand.
She puts her elbows on the desk and then puts her head in her hands. “Rickie, I don't have any medical experience with TBI. So I did a bunch of reading this weekend, and I couldn't find a single TBI case with memory issues that are similar to yours, where so much material is retained so perfectly.”
“There are other cases. Like that CEO who slipped in the bathroom and lost his entire life’s memories.”
“I read about him,” she says quietly. “His brain scan revealed a loss of blood flow to the right temporal lobe.”
That’s true. And yet my brain scan showed no abnormalities like his. “That man also had learning issues after his accident. Difficulty forming new memories. I didn’t.”
Lenore nods calmly.
Nothing inside me is calm. Because I know what Lenore is trying to imply. “You think I don't have a TBI anymore.”
“That’s one explanation,” she says with deliberate care.
And I realize it’s even creepier than that.
“You think I never had one. You think my memory loss is only traumatic?” My voice gets high and weird.
“Like…a dissociative fugue. Wh-what is the new term for that?” Then I answer my own question.
“Dissociative psychogenic amnesia.” My heart pounds, and I hear a rushing sound in my ears.
“That’s an extreme interpretation,” she says. “That brain fog you suffered after the accident sounds very much like a concussion.”
“But that went away in weeks .”
She watches me, and waits.
Bile climbs up my throat. I might actually vomit. When did this office get so small? I stand up and quickly unlatch Lenore’s window, and roll it open to the summer air. I stick my head outside and breathe. The sight of the green lawn below us makes me feel a little calmer.
Just breathe , I remind myself. I haven’t had a panic attack in a long time. Months. And now I’m on panic attack number two in two days.
Panic attacks, by the way, are a very rare symptom of TBI.
What if I never had a TBI?
When I turn back to look at Lenore, her eyes are worried. I’m scaring her right now. And, honestly, that's the most frightening thing yet. Her fear. “Shit, I’m not going to jump .”
“I know,” she says quickly. “I'm no doctor, okay? I struggled with whether to bring this up. But after rereading that file, I had certain suspicions. And I shared them with my advisor, who thought that you and I should have a discussion.”
A discussion sounds so benign. “You think my entire memory loss is psychological.”
“I think it could be. This honestly isn't the first time I've wondered,” she whispers.
“And you never said anything?” Anger surges inside me, and I know she doesn't deserve it. But when will the hits stop coming?
“Rickie, you are the smartest client that I have, perhaps the smartest person I know…”
“You wanted me to figure it out for myself,” I say heavily.
“It was just a suspicion,” she says. “My job is to lessen your trauma, not increase it. And there wasn’t any proof. And let’s not forget my lack of medical experience, and the lack of a decent medical file here. Although I was open to exploring that idea if you ever went there yourself.”
But I never went there myself. Some shrink I’m going to be. “I could get another scan,” I suggest. “Mine came up clear.”
“You could,” she agrees. “There might be a hospital somewhere with a more sensitive machine. We could investigate. But if a new set of scans is clear, then you still don't know anything. It could still be a medical condition that we can't find on an MRI.”
“I’m so tired of not knowing,” I say uselessly. “And I hate this theory of yours.”
“Why?” she asks.
“What do you mean why? I've been so angry about my memory loss and now you're telling me that it's my own fault.”
“Whoa now,” she says, pointing a finger at me. “That is a very bad take on this discussion.”
“I know,” I grunt. “But last year I was a guest speaker at that cognitive psychology course. Remember? Everyone was so impressed that I knew the ins and outs of memory loss diagnoses. It's just that I had mine all wrong.”
“Rickie, I hate to break this news—but if you’re going to become a clinical psychologist, that means a lifetime of interpreting other people’s psychological issues without ever being sure that you’ve got a good grasp on your own. We are all our own worst patients.”
“I realize that,” I grunt.
“One problem at a time,” she says gently. “This changes nothing.”
“How can you say that? My treatment should change. I should be considering hypnosis or some shit.”
“That option has always been open to you. But you told me hypnotism is for suckers. Those were your actual words.”
My laugh is bitter. “It’s true.” I get up out of my chair. “Our time is up, right?”
“Almost,” she admits. “But sit down a sec. I don’t want you to walk out of here feeling angry and confused.”
“I’ve been angry and confused for a couple of years now,” I point out. “Today is no different.”
“It is, though,” she says quietly.
I know she’s right. I just don’t know what to do about it. “What if you call the Academy? It’s been at least a year since anyone bothered them about me. What if you reached the infirmary and asked for another copy of my file?”
She taps her fingers on the desk. “I’m game. But if they weren’t helpful before, they probably won’t be now.”
“Probably,” I admit. “But what if you get someone new on the phone? Somewhere, someone knows what happened to me that night. I mean—lie to them if you have to. Say I’m in crisis.
Tell them I’m psychotic. Ask them if I was shot at or blown up.
I don’t care how outlandish you make it.
If they issue a denial, they might throw you some more details. Do whatever it takes.”
She takes a deep breath. I can tell she’s thinking about it.
“Please,” I whisper. “I know it probably won’t work. But just try.”
“Okay,” she says. “Okay.”
“That’s all I ask.” On that note, I make my exit, leaving Lenore’s worried face behind.