Head Case Read Free Page A

Some doctors believe in syndrome as an end-point diagnosis, and others see it merely as a diagnostic tool to get to the heart of a larger illness.
    Digging further, I find a June 1966 paper published in a medical journal called simply Brain . The medical investigation, “The Enigma of Gerstmann’s Syndrome,” begins with a quote from the French author Andr é Maurois: “The members of the medical fraternity can at least classify our ailments in carefully labeled compartments, and that, in itself, is reassuring. To be able to call a demon by its name is half-way to getting rid of him.”
    This quote seems to be intended as ironic because the author, the neurologist Macdonald Critchley, goes on, as best as I can understand, to tear apart the diagnostic framework created by Josef Gerstmann as a combination of symptoms that may not make up a stand-alone syndrome. To my understanding, it’s the difference between a Pu-pu platter, a dish made up of smaller appetizers, and an entr é e. I don’t know what this means for me, what the difference is between having symptoms or a syndrome at this point really, anyway.
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    â€œNooooo … don’t get an MRIIIIII!” my younger sister, Carly, wails into the phone. “On TV, whenever someone gets an MRI, they always have a seizure.” Carly is twenty-three. She works for a graphic design company making pamphlets for fancy new condominiums and lives in a nice apartment in the Pearl district of Portland with her cat, Margot. At this moment, I would much rather she put Margot on the phone. “Carly, put Margot on the phone.” Margot whines and breathes heavily but does not foresee imminent peril.

 
    May 6, 2007
    MRI Scan
    A few days after my first appointment, my dad drives me to a different wing of the same hospital. It’s a Sunday; the imaging wing of the hospital is barren. We have to rely on signs to lead us to the waiting room for my MRI appointment. Further crippling our endeavor, the coffee stand is unmanned. We circle around the wing three times until we are stopped in our laps by a security guard, who points us toward the MRI station. We lose our way a few more times. I debate with my dad the difference between an MRI and an X-ray. My win saves us from sitting in the wrong waiting room. I imagine that if my dad were here alone on a Sunday, he would have sat in that waiting room for hours, riffling through moldy copies of Good Housekeeping and becoming increasingly irate before walking out in a fury. The similarities between the two of us are well known in our family. We are generally not allowed to go out on errands together, but my mom is working at the library today.
    There is no one at the MRI check-in desk, only a large sign instructing us to PRESS BUTTON AND WAIT. If only they had an equally large sign directing us to this button. We both search on, above, and below the desk. Dad begins to repeatedly press the desk, the phone, the chairs, while loudly making urgent buzzing noises. When all else fails, act out. It’s a proven strategy, often provoking an immediate response to be negotiated into aid. I’ll stop doing what you don’t like if you work toward my goals.
    Surprisingly, no orderly or security guard comes to quiet his imaginary buzzer. Eventually we find a big red button on the wall, accompanied by the sign PRESS BUTTON HERE.
    The hospital is mocking us, I am certain of it. We are being taking advantage of for the pleasures of the Sunday staff. Dr. Volt is looking down upon us from hidden cameras, taking notes and giggling gleefully with his resident, their eyes glazed over with manic joy.
    My dad presses the actual button, and an amiable curly-haired twentysomething attendant in dark blue scrubs arrives at the check-in desk. “The button is hard to find,” Dad grumbles by way of greeting before slouching into a waiting-room chair. The attendant walks me down the