Brainstorm. Sheldon J.D. Cohen

no time scheduling the MRI and providing Gail with full instructions.

      That evening when she mentioned having scheduled his MRI George flew into a rage. He picked up a nearby stack of books and slammed them on the floor. “What? Who told you to do that?” he shouted. Such an unexpected display of anger at this time caught Gail off-guard, and she started to cry. “You promised,” she choked through her sobs.

      George had enough presence of mind to realize that Gail was displaying raw emotion in a way that she had not done before. He realized the need to placate her, and calmed himself down.

      “Okay, I’ll go, but it’s a waste of time.” Gail made the appointment.

      He was unhappy, but he convinced himself to get it over with.

      The hospital technologist explained the procedure for the MRI to him and asked if he was claustrophobic. When he assured her he was not, she assisted him in lying down on the table and covered his eyes with a cloth to help him relax. Then she guided him into the tunnel. Seconds later, he slithered off the table and landed on the floor. As he was panting and hyperventilating, the worried technologist rushed to his side.

      “Don’t be afraid, it happens sometimes.”

      He was trembling. “It felt like I was buried inside a casket.”

      “I won’t use a cloth over your eyes,” she said. “When you enter the tunnel look towards your feet, so you’ll see outside the tunnel and know you’re safe and not surrounded by it on all sides.”

      He fought the urge to leave, but controlled himself. When the technologist gave him an injection of contrast material to ‘light up’ a possible abnormality, his ordeal was soon over and he was free to go.

      “How was it?” asked Gail.

      “A piece of cake.”

      The following two days were nerve-wracking for Gail while she waited for the test results. The news was good. His MRI was perfect. There was not a single abnormality.

      “Now are you satisfied?” he said. “My brain, like everything else, works just fine.”

      Gail let out an audible sigh. “Better get to work,” she told him.

      CHAPTER 14

      He resumed his job. He tried his best, but problems continued to plague him. One afternoon he experienced a recurrence of the ulcer-like symptoms. He had stopped his medication after thinking the pain was gone. Now he had none left to alleviate the condition. After work, he drove to the local drugstore for a bottle of antacids.

      This evening he didn’t come home from work on time. Gail was worried. Two hours passed and she panicked. She telephoned the construction site, but nobody answered. She assumed the worst. His job was a thirty-minute drive from home, and many hospitals were located along the way. She called the two nearest ones, but they told her that George Gilmer was neither an inpatient nor had he come through the Emergency Department. Just as she was considering calling the police the telephone rang.

      “Hello, Mrs. Gilmer?”

      “Yes, who is this please?” she asked.

      “I’m officer Dixon of the Roby Avenue police station.

      “Oh, my God. What happened?”

      “Your husband was caught breaking into a car parked in front of a drugstore. He smashed the window on the driver’s side, got in and drove away. A pedestrian noted the make of the car and the license plate number and called the police. We had a patrol car pick him up. He didn’t answer questions, so the officer called for help and we brought him into the station. He wasn’t cooperating and was acting funny. It took us a while to find out that the car your husband broke into was his own. He smashed the window to get inside after realizing that he had locked the keys in the car. We’ve got him calmed down now and he’s okay. But I got to tell you, he came real close to jail time.”

      Gail forced herself to remain calm. “Will he be able to come home now?” she said in a controlled tone of voice.

      “Yeah, we were worried about drugs or alcohol, but he snapped out of it fast so that couldn’t be the problem. Right now he’s fine.”

      “Thank you, officer.” Relieved, she hung up the receiver. She had not asked to speak to George for fear he would say something wrong. She waited for him to arrive and within twenty minutes he was back home.

      Gail remained noncommittal while observing his familiar blank stare and lack of communication. After ten seconds of silence, she spoke. “You might be angry with me, but I need to tell you that you’re a very sick man. You broke your car window and almost wound up behind bars. What could you possibly have been thinking?”

      “I had to get into the car. My keys were there.”

      “But the police said you didn’t know what you were doing and they thought you were drugged, or maybe even drunk.”

      “They’re all exaggerating.”

      “Forget it, George. Nothing’s changed. You’re sick. You forget a lot. You’re nervous and irritable, and I’m even getting scared to live with you. You’ve got to take Dr. Crowell’s advice and go see a psychiatrist, and also get the blood tests he ordered. You didn’t do those yet.”

      “Maybe you’re the one who needs the shrink,” George answered sarcastically.

      “You’re right, I am going nuts,” she sobbed, “but you’re driving me there. You have no idea what this has done to me. Your MRI may have been normal, but something is happening to your brain. Can’t you see it? We can’t go on like this.”

      He felt impacted by Gail’s tears. Despite his altered mind-set, there appeared some glimmer of recognition regarding his fragile situation, both at home and work.

      “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll go. But it’s just another waste of money.”

      She kept still, fearing that any further discussion might cause him to change his mind.

      She telephoned Burt’s office the next morning and spoke to his nurse. Realizing the urgency, the nurse arranged for George to see a psychiatrist right away. The psychiatrist’s schedule was booked months in advance, but he agreed to meet George in the hospital where he made patient rounds.

      Gail and George met Dr. Louis Clementi at the hospital clinic. He was everyone’s vision of a psychiatrist—tall, with a gray beard, glasses, a slight Italian accent and a navy blue suit with a light blue shirt and striped tie. Gail thought he resembled an Italian reincarnation of Sigmund Freud. The doctor’s calm presence put them at ease. They entered a small examining room in the outpatient department.

      “I’m pleased to meet you both,” said the doctor. “I hope I can help.”

      Gail related the entire story, beginning with George’s failure to get the prescribed tests. The doctor took notes while keeping a watchful eye on his patient. He observed George’s fidgeting, anxiety, inattentiveness, and above all, his facial expressions and body language. Then he suggested to Gail that she step out of the room so he could interview her husband in private. The doctor spent a full thirty minutes questioning him before inviting Gail back in. Then, he sat and faced the two of them.

      “I don’t like to make a firm diagnosis after one visit.” he offered. “For the record, however, here’s what I think. First, the normal MRI is good news. Your concern about a brain tumor, Mrs. Gilmer, was a good one in light of your husband’s symptoms, and we’re happy that was not the problem, but other conditions can cause such symptoms, even with a normal MRI brain scan. As you know, I see only patients with emotional or mental problems, so I end up with a particular psychiatric diagnosis. Mr. Gilmer has many different symptoms of anxiety, perhaps paranoia, agitation, restlessness, and even amnesia. Yet, I’m beginning to focus my attention on a medical diagnosis rather than a psychiatric one. Many medical problems can affect the brain; that list is endless.”

      George