Read Online Slow Dancing with a Stranger by Meryl Comer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Meryl Comer
Ads: Link
him enough to make him loosen his grip.
Other times, if he grabbed both my wrists, effectively pinning me in place, I would break down in tears, hoping to bewilder or confuse him enough that he would let me go and walk out of the room. But I realized we could not go on like this; if the situation continued or deteriorated even further, I could end up getting seriously hurt.
I spoke again with Dr. Rabins who felt it was time for another round of testing. He recommended that Harvey be brought to the hospital and placed under observation to adjust his medication and look for a better diagnosis than dementia. I was reluctant, knowing that Harvey felt safe at home and unsure how he would behave in a strange environment. But at this point, I felt I had no choice. Things were already bad, and there was nothing I could do to comfort him. Harveyâs latest symptoms were adding up to a disturbing prognosis. I started to make the necessary arrangements.
I was desperate for a formal diagnosis even as Harvey was oblivious.
I will never forget the morning we checked into Johns Hopkins Hospital on Meyer 6, a lockdown floor reserved for patients with complicated neuropsychological conditions that cannot be managed elsewhere. As we prepared for what was expected to be a short hospital visit, Harvey was more anxious than normal. I dressed him like a gentleman right down to his best cologne, so the nurses would treat him with respect. Even if they didnât know who he was, they would be able to tell that he was someone of stature, even if he now had trouble getting dressed and kept repeating himself.
Hospital check-in wasnât until 12:30 P . M ., so we found seats in the cafeteria, but neither of us could eat. We walked around the outdoor garden before going upstairs. Harvey was very quiet and held my hand like a child. I kept talking, reassuring him that we were going to see if we could adjust his medicines so he would feel better.
âThen can I go back to work?â he asked. Even after everything that had happened, Harvey was fixated on recapturing the life he once had. I would have done anything to help him get it back.
âOf course, love, thatâs why weâre here. The doctors will run some tests and soon things will be just the way they were,â I told him.
My reassuring words contradicted the sight that greeted us when the elevator door opened. We stepped into a small, beige chamber with a heavy locked metal door and reinforced wired glass windows. The nursesâ voices sounded disembodied as they spoke to us through an intercom and buzzed us in. I kept telling myself that Harvey was scheduled for only three to four days of testing and medication adjustment. If it helped him, a few days in this place was worth it.
We were led to a drab double room just down the hall with sad beige walls and a bathroom devoid of sharp instruments to prevent the patients from wounding themselves. I wasnât sure how Harvey would adjust to a stranger in the room, but there were no private singles available. The nurse assured me that no one was scheduled in, so he would be alone.
Harvey was tired from being up so much of the night before, so he lay down on the bed as I quickly unpacked. I had brought along an old radio to keep him company, since Harvey couldnât work a CD player anymore, and turned it to a channel that played his favorite classical music. If he woke up in the middle of the night and was disoriented, I hoped he would hear the music and relate it to the comfort of home.
Just then, a senior resident entered the room and apologized for not shaking my hand. âSpreads germs, you know. Our mission here is to make certain the patientsâ best interests come first.â
The doctor then turned to Harvey, who sat docilely at the edge of the bed. âYouâve come to the right place,â he told Harvey. âNo one can figure out what is wrong with you, Dr. Gralnick.â
âThatâs
Other times, if he grabbed both my wrists, effectively pinning me in place, I would break down in tears, hoping to bewilder or confuse him enough that he would let me go and walk out of the room. But I realized we could not go on like this; if the situation continued or deteriorated even further, I could end up getting seriously hurt.
I spoke again with Dr. Rabins who felt it was time for another round of testing. He recommended that Harvey be brought to the hospital and placed under observation to adjust his medication and look for a better diagnosis than dementia. I was reluctant, knowing that Harvey felt safe at home and unsure how he would behave in a strange environment. But at this point, I felt I had no choice. Things were already bad, and there was nothing I could do to comfort him. Harveyâs latest symptoms were adding up to a disturbing prognosis. I started to make the necessary arrangements.
I was desperate for a formal diagnosis even as Harvey was oblivious.
I will never forget the morning we checked into Johns Hopkins Hospital on Meyer 6, a lockdown floor reserved for patients with complicated neuropsychological conditions that cannot be managed elsewhere. As we prepared for what was expected to be a short hospital visit, Harvey was more anxious than normal. I dressed him like a gentleman right down to his best cologne, so the nurses would treat him with respect. Even if they didnât know who he was, they would be able to tell that he was someone of stature, even if he now had trouble getting dressed and kept repeating himself.
Hospital check-in wasnât until 12:30 P . M ., so we found seats in the cafeteria, but neither of us could eat. We walked around the outdoor garden before going upstairs. Harvey was very quiet and held my hand like a child. I kept talking, reassuring him that we were going to see if we could adjust his medicines so he would feel better.
âThen can I go back to work?â he asked. Even after everything that had happened, Harvey was fixated on recapturing the life he once had. I would have done anything to help him get it back.
âOf course, love, thatâs why weâre here. The doctors will run some tests and soon things will be just the way they were,â I told him.
My reassuring words contradicted the sight that greeted us when the elevator door opened. We stepped into a small, beige chamber with a heavy locked metal door and reinforced wired glass windows. The nursesâ voices sounded disembodied as they spoke to us through an intercom and buzzed us in. I kept telling myself that Harvey was scheduled for only three to four days of testing and medication adjustment. If it helped him, a few days in this place was worth it.
We were led to a drab double room just down the hall with sad beige walls and a bathroom devoid of sharp instruments to prevent the patients from wounding themselves. I wasnât sure how Harvey would adjust to a stranger in the room, but there were no private singles available. The nurse assured me that no one was scheduled in, so he would be alone.
Harvey was tired from being up so much of the night before, so he lay down on the bed as I quickly unpacked. I had brought along an old radio to keep him company, since Harvey couldnât work a CD player anymore, and turned it to a channel that played his favorite classical music. If he woke up in the middle of the night and was disoriented, I hoped he would hear the music and relate it to the comfort of home.
Just then, a senior resident entered the room and apologized for not shaking my hand. âSpreads germs, you know. Our mission here is to make certain the patientsâ best interests come first.â
The doctor then turned to Harvey, who sat docilely at the edge of the bed. âYouâve come to the right place,â he told Harvey. âNo one can figure out what is wrong with you, Dr. Gralnick.â
âThatâs
Similar Books
The Billionaires Hired Baby Mother: When the wife and surrogate are two different people
BWWM Club, Tyra Small
