Good Job!
Good Job!
The cognition therapist is called Connie, and today Eve has remembered that fact, which already feels like a major triumph.
“Hi, Connie,” she says, eager to show off her excellent memory for names. “How are you?”
“I’m good, thanks,” says Connie, who is a cheerful American with cropped red hair and an energetic demeanor. “How are you?”
This is a tricky question to answer, Eve thinks. Does she answer big picture or small picture? Big picture: “I have incurable cancer, thanks for asking.” Small picture: “I feel fine today, apart from the knowledge that I am so cognitively impaired I need special therapy.”
In the end, she distills all the possible answers into a platitude.
“Fine, thanks!” she says, trying to match Connie’s enthusiasm, and Connie beams.
“Great! Now, to begin today’s session, I have a few pictures for you to look at. See if you can tell me what they are and what they’re used for.”
She opens one of her folders and shows the contents to Eve. It is a line drawing of an object and Eve is almost certain she knows what it is. But the word won’t come to her.
“Just describe the item as best you can,” prompts Connie gently.
Eve stares at the line drawing, feeling frustrated. “It’s a…You wear it and it has sleeves and…” She’s run out of impetus.
“And what’s it called?”
“A bag,” guesses Eve.
“A shirt,” says Connie kindly.
“A shirt,” says Eve quickly. “That’s what I meant. A shirt. You use it for wearing.”
“Yes, you do!” exclaims Connie brightly. “Good job! Now, what about this one?”
This picture is easy and Eve answers with alacrity, feeling pleased with herself.
“A chair. You use it for being on. Sitting on.”
“Good job!” exclaims Connie as though Eve has cracked quantum theory. “And this?”
“A pen,” says Eve promptly, feeling a surge of triumph. “You use it for drawing. And for writing.”
“Good job! And this one?”
Eve stares at the picture, dumbfounded.
“It’s a…a…a device.” Eve feels as though she’s dredged the word up from heavy mud in her brain. “A device for…temperature. No, I don’t mean that. For…measure. Tell the measurement,” she concludes hopelessly, aware that she can’t even speak properly, let alone identify this mystery object.
“It’s a sextant,” says Connie kindly.
A sextant? Did she ever know what a sextant was?
“And this picture?” Connie flips the page and Eve stares at the drawing.
“There’s a horse,” she says slowly, again feeling as though she’s hauling up the words from somewhere deep and murky. “And they have the things on their eyes. The cover things.”
“Do you know the name?”
Eve is silent. She doesn’t know the name. Did she ever know the name?
“You know I’m a writer?” she says at last, in despair. “I have to know what words mean, or I can’t make a living.”
“You’ve improved a lot,” says Connie. “Don’t beat yourself up. You’ve been through so much. So are we giving up on this one? Have another look.”
“Horse things,” says Eve hopelessly. “That’s all I can give you.”
“Blinkers,” says Connie.
“ Blinkers, that’s right.”
I am an Oxford graduate, thinks Eve. I got a first in PPE. And now all my words have disintegrated in my brain. Or maybe the surgeon took them out by mistake.
“Now let’s move on to our drawing exercises.” Connie produces a piece of paper and a pen and hands them to Eve. Then she opens another folder. This one is red. And Eve knows it is the one full of scary drawings that she has to copy. She was never any good at drawing and now she’s beyond remedial.
“Can you draw this shape?”
That shape? That huge and intimidating shape with zigzags and bobbles and lines everywhere?
She picks up a pen with a hand that feels shaky. Can she even draw a straight line?
Eve has coached her children through nonverbal reasoning exercises to get into brainy schools. She should know how to do this, but the idea of drawing even one line feels daunting.
“Just do your best,” says Connie encouragingly.
Eve begins to draw, but she can’t control the pen at all. It staggers and lurches on the page, and the result looks clumsy and all over the shop.
“Good job!” exclaims Connie, as though Eve has just drawn the Mona Lisa . “Let’s try something else. Can you write your name?”
Of course she can write her name, thinks Eve firmly. She has to use mind over matter here. Of course she can write her name.
But the letters are wobbly and uneven, like the printing of a toddler.
“I used to sign books,” she says, her voice sounding slurred to her own ears. “Lots of books. Thousands of books, really fast. And now I can’t even write my name.”
“Be gentle with yourself. You’re doing so well, I’m going to push you a little. Can you draw the shape you just drew from memory? Here’s another piece of paper.”
From memory?
Eve stares at the blank sheet in terror. There was a bobble and a zigzag, that’s all she can remember.
Using all her effort, she draws a bobble, a zigzag, and a few random straight lines.
“Good job!” exclaims Connie.
“Was it right?” asks Eve in hope.
“Not exactly right,” says Connie, showing Eve a drawing that is nothing like Eve’s attempt. “But some of the elements were correct. And you’re making so much progress. Let’s move on to blocks.”
Eve’s heart sinks. Not the blocks again. She was never any good at spatial awareness, and these blocks have defeated her every time.
“Here you are.” Connie produces a quantity of triangular plastic blocks. “Can you make me a big triangle with these blocks?”
“I can try,” says Eve, knowing already she will fail. She has grown to hate plastic blocks and wishes they could be banned. But she is committed to this therapy, so she will try again and again, and Connie will exclaim “Good job!” whatever she produces.
And the blocks will taunt her with their shiny cheerfulness and refuse to fall into shape, and she will wonder what her children would say if they could see her now, sweating and breathing hard, struggling to make a triangle.