Read Online Short Bus Hero by Shannon Giglio - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Shannon Giglio
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corners of his mouth and eyes turned downward. He’d seen this type of behavior in mentally challenged patients before. It was never “just” depression.
“How old is Ally this year?” He squints at the small computer screen through his spectacles. “Twenty-four?”
Lois nods in time with her foot.
Dr. Stone blows out a sigh. “It could be depression, but it could be something more, as well. Something as vague as what we call ‘reduced function’ in a patient with Down syndrome—not wanting to go to work, not wanting to participate in favorite activities can indicate a lot of things.” He looks like he’s waiting for Lois to respond. When she doesn’t, he continues. “A lot of my patients with Down syndrome start developing symptoms of dementia as they get older. Granted, Ally is fairly young, but there is still a real concern, even at that age. While it’s rare, and I hate to even think of it, it’s not completely unheard of for someone her age to start experiencing the very first symptoms of Alzheimer’s.”
And there it was. The bad news she’d been dreading since Ally was born. They’d been lucky for twenty-four years. Ally had been blessed with a healthy heart and, narrow ear canals aside, had been spared the health issues common to those with her condition. Lois’s foot stops tapping as a swirl of images flies around inside her head, memories and projections: changing Ally’s diapers as a baby, changing Ally’s diapers as an adult. Ally talking to her Barbies, Ally talking to no one at all; seizures, staring into space, Lois shaking a non-responsive Ally. She swallows a sour lump of nothing and looks up to the ceiling in automatic prayer.
I wanted to whisper to her, to tell her that it isn’t Alzheimer’s, but, alas, I am unauthorized to make any such statements. So, I watch silently from the corner behind the doctor, bored by the human drama, but somehow feeling a little sad for Lois.
The prospect of my own empathy returning surprises me.
Huh.
Dr. Stone reaches forward and covers Lois’s shaking hand with his own.
“Alzheimer’s is a diagnosis of exclusion, okay? Do you know what that means?”
Lois shakes her head. She doesn’t think she knows what anything means right now. She stares at the white wires of hair curling out of the doctor’s right ear.
“Let’s run some tests on Ally. Blood work, an MRI, and see if everything there is normal, no intracranial lesions or atrophy—”
“You mean like a brain tumor?” Panic lights Lois’s eyes and snaps her to attention. Spinning red lights and emergency sirens fill the space of her head. The examination room spins around her.
“Well, among other things. Lois, the chances of something like that are extremely slight, and I don’t want you to worry.” He snorts as though her reaction somehow amuses him. “But, I know you will; you’re a mom, and mom’s worry. But, please, try not to. There is nothing to worry about yet, okay? We’ll take care of Ally.” He pulls out his prescription pad and scratches on it with a “Nasonex” emblazoned pen. “For the time being, I want to give her an SSRI, an anti-depressant, to see if that helps. If it does, she’s golden and I don’t think we have much to worry about, but I still want to run those tests, okay?”
Memories of her own mother’s long battle with depression come rushing into Lois’s mind. Instead of going to Girl Scout meetings or cheerleading practice after school with her friends, Lois had walked home and tended to her bedridden mother. Mental illness runs in families, she thinks, looking at Santa’s ear hair. She neglects to think about the hoarded piles of little pieces of life that fill her home, or the compulsion that drives her to build those caches. She hopes her daughter isn’t crazy.
Lois nods and looks at the floor. Telling her not to worry is like telling a race car driver to take the bus.
“It’s probably depression, okay? Let’s just make sure
“How old is Ally this year?” He squints at the small computer screen through his spectacles. “Twenty-four?”
Lois nods in time with her foot.
Dr. Stone blows out a sigh. “It could be depression, but it could be something more, as well. Something as vague as what we call ‘reduced function’ in a patient with Down syndrome—not wanting to go to work, not wanting to participate in favorite activities can indicate a lot of things.” He looks like he’s waiting for Lois to respond. When she doesn’t, he continues. “A lot of my patients with Down syndrome start developing symptoms of dementia as they get older. Granted, Ally is fairly young, but there is still a real concern, even at that age. While it’s rare, and I hate to even think of it, it’s not completely unheard of for someone her age to start experiencing the very first symptoms of Alzheimer’s.”
And there it was. The bad news she’d been dreading since Ally was born. They’d been lucky for twenty-four years. Ally had been blessed with a healthy heart and, narrow ear canals aside, had been spared the health issues common to those with her condition. Lois’s foot stops tapping as a swirl of images flies around inside her head, memories and projections: changing Ally’s diapers as a baby, changing Ally’s diapers as an adult. Ally talking to her Barbies, Ally talking to no one at all; seizures, staring into space, Lois shaking a non-responsive Ally. She swallows a sour lump of nothing and looks up to the ceiling in automatic prayer.
I wanted to whisper to her, to tell her that it isn’t Alzheimer’s, but, alas, I am unauthorized to make any such statements. So, I watch silently from the corner behind the doctor, bored by the human drama, but somehow feeling a little sad for Lois.
The prospect of my own empathy returning surprises me.
Huh.
Dr. Stone reaches forward and covers Lois’s shaking hand with his own.
“Alzheimer’s is a diagnosis of exclusion, okay? Do you know what that means?”
Lois shakes her head. She doesn’t think she knows what anything means right now. She stares at the white wires of hair curling out of the doctor’s right ear.
“Let’s run some tests on Ally. Blood work, an MRI, and see if everything there is normal, no intracranial lesions or atrophy—”
“You mean like a brain tumor?” Panic lights Lois’s eyes and snaps her to attention. Spinning red lights and emergency sirens fill the space of her head. The examination room spins around her.
“Well, among other things. Lois, the chances of something like that are extremely slight, and I don’t want you to worry.” He snorts as though her reaction somehow amuses him. “But, I know you will; you’re a mom, and mom’s worry. But, please, try not to. There is nothing to worry about yet, okay? We’ll take care of Ally.” He pulls out his prescription pad and scratches on it with a “Nasonex” emblazoned pen. “For the time being, I want to give her an SSRI, an anti-depressant, to see if that helps. If it does, she’s golden and I don’t think we have much to worry about, but I still want to run those tests, okay?”
Memories of her own mother’s long battle with depression come rushing into Lois’s mind. Instead of going to Girl Scout meetings or cheerleading practice after school with her friends, Lois had walked home and tended to her bedridden mother. Mental illness runs in families, she thinks, looking at Santa’s ear hair. She neglects to think about the hoarded piles of little pieces of life that fill her home, or the compulsion that drives her to build those caches. She hopes her daughter isn’t crazy.
Lois nods and looks at the floor. Telling her not to worry is like telling a race car driver to take the bus.
“It’s probably depression, okay? Let’s just make sure
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