Dedicated to: Anthea & Glenn Livingstone
You shuffle in, smelling of chip fat and Golden Virginia, sit down
without unzipping your anorak and look down at your hands, just like you do
every other Tuesday. You look thin, even thinner than a fortnight ago.
“What’s been happening Martin?” I ask, but I already know the answer.
Right on cue it, comes.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me Doctor.” And so you begin – as usual
it’s the tales of strange dreams, of unexplained markings, half-remembered
sentences from a world you don’t understand.
I remember you a year ago, before your wife died. (What was her name?
It’s terrible that I don’t remember.) You were so practical, so straightforward
and strong… and funny too. I thought that would save you, but instead you come
to me with your tales of – what? Extra-terrestrials or something? I thought it
was one of your jokes at first. Then I realised it wasn’t, that you really
believed it.
My screen tells me you missed your neurology appointment again. “Martin”
I begin, but it’s no good.
“It’s my blood” you say. “They’re changing my blood.” You told me this
last time – a tale from one of your nightmares. “Look!” You roll up your sleeve
to reveal a row of tiny, raised dots. Bed bugs.
“When did you last change your sheets, Martin?” I ask, as gently as I can
manage. You used to look wounded by such questions, but today there’s not so
much as a flicker – you don’t seem to have heard me at all.
“Count them – seven!”
I recall something from a few months ago – you showed me bites in the
same place; come to think of it, you were quick to point out that there were
seven then. It was mid-summer and I recommended cream from the chemist, but you
said they didn’t itch.
“Do they itch, Martin?” I ask.
“No, but there’s seven again!”
I indulge you and count them – there are, indeed, seven. It’s probably a
coincidence, or you miscounted the last time.
“Exactly two inches apart Doctor”
There is a precision about them which is undeniable. They form a perfect
line and are uniform in size.
“They’re changing my blood” you repeat.
“Martin, have you been eating properly?”
“You don’t believe me Doctor.”
I glance at my watch – I always offer you a double appointment. Your
first one is almost over and we haven’t discussed your missed neurology appointment
yet.
“Martin, it says here that you didn’t go to your hospital appointment
last week.”
“I’m not mad! I don’t need to see a Doctor to tell me I am. I know what
dementia is! I nursed my Jean, remember? No – probably not. We’re all just
numbers and appointments to you. You’re the one that needs your head testing
Doctor! Not me. You probably didn’t even remember her name.”
As quickly as you erupted, you stop silent again, but you look like I’ve
never seen you before. Your eyes have doubled in size, your face is flushed and
your mouth is twisted and trembles.
“Martin I’m sorry.”
I really am. Even though I know anger is a symptom of dementia – I should
be more careful.
We sit in silence – three minutes until your appointment is over and I’ll
overrun. I try to think of a way to bring up the neurologist appointment again.
You so desperately need it. You stare down at the marks on your arm. When you
speak, your voice is back to its normal, pleading tone.
“Please Doctor – they’re changing my blood.”
I sigh. I shouldn’t order a blood test because of some dream you’re
having. I’ll have to say it’s to check your iron levels or something. I
probably should anyway – I’m sure you’re not eating properly.
“Would you like me to run a blood test?”
Your face lights up.
“Yes Doctor, thank you, thank you.”
We’re officially overrunning now and I should tell you to go to the
health centre to have the test, but you’ll probably forget. So I’ll do it
myself. As I’m preparing the needle and putting on gloves, you’re apologising.
“I’m sorry Doctor, about before. I truly am. I know you’re a good
doctor.”
“It’s OK. Let’s get this done.”
It’s been a while since I’ve done this and it takes me ages to find a
vein.
“You have thin veins.”
“Didn’t used to Doctor. They’ve changed.”
I’m sure they have. Eventually I manage.
“This may sting a little.”
“I can’t feel a thing.”
I draw the needle out from your arm and watch as clear, colourless fluid
fills the syringe. Surely not? I rack my brains for an explanation. Maybe it’s
an old syringe? Maybe it’s an infection? But neither of these ideas make any
sense. We look at each other, no longer doctor and patient, as the words you
have been repeating for months fill the air like smoke.
“They’re changing my blood.”
Words: 818
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