Most mental conditions—from Alzheimer’s to schizophrenia, from bipolar disorder to depression—involve some sort of change to a person’s emotions and thus his or her personality. But whenever someone exhibits significant personality changes, especially over a relatively short period, it’s also possible that a frontal-lobe problem—a tumor or injury, for example—is to blame.
Like my headaches, the changes in my personality signal that something serious is going on. Squashed like Jell-O in a jar and pushed out of place from the swelling, my frontal cortex can’t perform its supervisory function of telling me to stop and think before I jump into action. In a sense, this crucial part of my brain has reverted to an earlier state, not unlike the brain of a small child who hasn’t yet learned how to exercise self-control or navigate delicate social situations.
I have no idea any of this is happening. If I notice anything amiss, I just assume I’m stressed out—from the heat, from the exertion of the trip, from the noise and activity of life with my grandsons. All I need is to get back to my own house and my regular schedule, which is much less hectic than theirs. I long for peace and quiet. I miss Mirek, and I can’t wait to be home with him.
I leave New Haven on May 29, the day after I erupted at Sebastian. My shaken daughter and grandchildren escort me to the train station. As I kiss them goodbye, I know I will miss them, yet I’m eager to get home.
The journey back is uneventful, and Mirek meets me at Union Station. From a distance, I easily spot his car, a green Volkswagen Passat outfitted with a roof rack for our bikes.
As I step off the train, he is beaming. “I’m so happy to see you,” he says, leaning in for a kiss. “I missed you.”
I don’t kiss him back. “I’m very tired,” I snap. “I want to go home.”
He gives me a puzzled look tinged with hurt. “Did anything bad happen?” he asks. “I am sure you had a wonderful time, no?”
“Why are you asking me these questions now? I’m tired!”
He retreats into silence, but I pursue him. “You always ask me so many questions,” I hiss. “What’s wrong with you?”
His eyes are glistening. Are those tears? I don’t care.
Mirek says nothing more. We drive home in total silence.
5
Poisoned
As June arrives, I return to the routine of what’s become normal life for me: a never-ending parade of doctors and medical appointments even as I continue to work full-time. At the office, I find the minor shortcomings of my employees very irritating. But instead of letting these small things slide, as I normally would, I begin to criticize them frequently.
Of course I find things irritating, I tell myself. I’m tired of being sick. I’m tired of my rash, my swollen arm. I’m tired of everything. And my headache continues to come and go.
When the date finally arrives for the physical therapy appointment for my lymphedema, I don’t feel like going. Although my arm is still uncomfortable, I loathe the idea of another hospital, another treatment. These medical visits are relentless reminders that I’m ill. And this visit is especially irksome now, when I’m trying to feel hopeful. My melanoma will retreat in the face of the magnificent, novel treatment I’m receiving. I know it.
But I’m a woman of my word, so rather than cancel at the last minute, I keep the appointment and go. It’s a short drive along back roads to the hospital from my home; afterward, I’ll head directly to work.
I know our local hospital well. I’ve been here many times for the various minor surgeries that Mirek, Witek, and I have endured over the past thirty years. But today, as I pull into the entrance to the parking complex, I wonder if I’m in the right place.
Everything looks totally unfamiliar. I don’t remember the parking area having this layout.
Did they change it?
I drive into the large, multilevel garage. There are no spaces on the first floor so I continue skyward. I drive up, up, looping for what seems like forever, in circle upon circle onto higher and higher levels—but still, I find no empty parking spots.
I emerge at the very top of the garage, where I’m momentarily dazzled by the sunshine. “In this heat, the car will be unbearable when I return,” I say to myself as I park.
I take the stairs down, down, down to the first floor of the garage. But once I’m there, I can’t locate the hospital entrance.
Did this change too?
I wander about for a minute and finally discover the front door, but once inside, I find myself in a confusing maze of long corridors leading in all directions, lined with doors opening to who knows where.
I’m lost again. Have they changed everything in this place?
Irritation wells inside me. “Why did I have to come here? This is so stupid,” I grumble. “Where’s the office? Why don’t they make it easier for patients to find their way around?”
I ask several people for directions but no matter how much they try to help, I cannot find the physical therapy department.
I can’t believe they’re doing this to me! I’m sick—how could they put me through this?
Somehow, I finally stumble upon the front desk of the PT department. I am seething.
After checking in, I take a seat in the waiting area—but any relief I feel at having found the office quickly dissolves. On the couch across from me, a little boy is coughing and crying. He nags
