There I sat, pleased that a short afternoon appointment from which I’d just returned ostensibly marked the last of my medical obligations for the year, when the phone rang. A scheduler with the neuropsychologist’s office introduced herself and said she was calling about the testing my MDS ordered, an evaluation we assumed wouldn’t be done until early 2025.
“If you’re free next Tuesday, we just had a cancelation,” she offered. “If that doesn’t work, Dr. So-and-So’s next availability is in April.”
When one of the best memory clinics in the country offers you a last-minute booking, you find a way to make it work. I accepted the appointment without hesitation, willing to reschedule any potential conflicts in order to get this monkey off my back. The less time there is to think about it, the easier it might be.
She stressed that it’s a lengthy process that takes three to five hours, usually at least four, and said to bring snacks and beverages because I’ll want them during breaks. “Take your Sinemet!” she continued, using another name for levodopa. “A lot of people stop taking it before they come in, but we want you to take it.”
Next she explained that part one is an “interview” with Dr. So-and-So, the neuropsychologist. That helps him decide what tests he wants administered in part two, at which point I’m passed along to whoever performs them. Then she gave me directions to a medical campus building I last visited a few months ago for lunch with Crankenstein, a memory I kept to myself.
Later, when I asked Crankenstein if she’s ever heard of Dr. So-and-So, she laughed and acknowledged she’s familiar with his work and passes one of his clinics every week. “Do you know each other socially?” I asked with a groan. Academic medicine’s a small world and I’m used to my life as a patient sometimes intersecting with her professional life, but whether or not I’m losing my marbles is a slightly more sensitive issue than the mundane physical problems that typically lure me to campus.
She was cagey about whether he knows her by name and it doesn’t matter much, anyway; he’s there to work and I’m only there for a better idea of how concerned we should be about recent events. How much I tell him about Crankenstein will depend on his demeanor. The very first thing I’m going to mention instead is that he should use a different string of words than “apple, penny, table,” which I’m destined to bitterly remember even after I forget my own name.