I stare at the child with annoyance. Why on earth would they let a sick kid into this room? I’m very ill. I can’t afford to be around someone like him!
As he continues to cry, my loathing increases.
Isn’t physical therapy for adults? Sick children should have a separate clinic. They should be isolated! He’s going to infect me!
I hate the little boy. I hate his father. I hate this place.
This torment continues for a long while until, at last, a woman in hospital scrubs enters the waiting room and calls my name. “I’m Theresa,” she says with a smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Such a strained, dishonest smile. So insincere. What is she up to? I’d better keep a close eye on her.
She leads me into an examination room and offers me a seat, then begins to inspect my arm.
“The lymphedema is really advanced,” she says. “You’ve waited way too long. The swelling may be permanent. I’m going to explain how we should treat it so that it doesn’t get worse, but you have to follow my instructions very carefully. If you don’t, it could be dangerous to your health. Your arm will be prone to infections.”
Why is she droning on and on? This is such a dreary, boring, awful place.
I begin to wonder what we’ll have for dinner tonight. Did Mirek get the salmon from the grocery store? I’ll bet he forgot. He’s always forgetting everything I ask him to do. How could he—
Her voice momentarily interrupts my thoughts. “Let me show you how to bandage the arm,” she says. “You’ll wear this bandage for the next month or two. It’s very important—do you understand?”
What time is it? I need to get home. Especially if Mirek forgot to shop. I need to get dinner ready.
She eyes me. “You really need to do this,” she says firmly.
I pretend to listen.
“After you’re done with the bandage, you’ll be using a compression sleeve like this,” she says, holding out a long, flesh-colored tube designed to span the length of an arm from knuckles to armpit. “You will have to wear another sleeve at night to keep your arm compressed and prevent lymph fluid from pooling.”
I glance at the sleeve. It’s ugly and silly.
“Are you kidding?” I scoff. “Do you really expect me to wear that ridiculous thing? It looks like a medieval torture device.”
She doesn’t respond.
Who does she think she is, sitting there so smugly? “I’m a professional woman with great responsibilities,” I continue. “How on earth would I look wearing these ludicrous bandages and sleeves? They may be good enough for someone sitting at home all day but not for me. I work in a serious place. I supervise a large department. You must have something better than that.”
She keeps watching me, silent.
I know better than she does. “Why don’t you just massage my arm and let’s be done with it?” I propose.
“Massage will only work in combination with these compression sleeves,” she says. “This is a serious condition. It needs immediate attention and ongoing treatment.”
I don’t like her expression. She’s arrogant. I knew it the minute I saw that fake smile. “I am not going to wear anything on my arm,” I say. “Forget it.”
“You need a series of regular visits,” she insists. “And you have to stop arguing with me.”
“A series of visits?” I start to laugh. “I have no time for such bullshit!”
I stand up and give her a withering look, then wheel around and stomp out the door, through the waiting room, and into the hallway. “What kind of nonsense was that?” I say aloud as I leave.
What a waste of time this was! I’m never coming back. Appalling! They have absolutely no idea what they’re doing.
I find the stairs in the parking garage and march directly to the highest floor, all the way into the sun. I get into my car and accelerate down and out of the parking garage in a long, spiraling swoop. Finally, I can head to work. I’m determined to put this absurdity behind me and get on with my day.
By this time, the highway is no longer congested by rush-hour traffic.
Of course, there are no cars on the highway anymore—everyone’s at work! I would be, too, if I hadn’t spent well over an hour in that stupid hospital.
It’s an easy drive on the Beltway to the sprawling NIMH campus in Bethesda. This is the largest biomedical institution in the world; almost twenty-one thousand federal employees work in dozens of buildings situated on hundreds of acres of a former private estate.
Even though I’m exhausted by that pointless physical therapy appointment, I put in a long day at work, supervising all aspects of the brain bank. I’m bombarded with questions as soon as I arrive. One of the technicians asks about a potential brain and whether we should accept it; as soon as he leaves, another technician comes in with a similar query. After she leaves, I respond to a dozen e-mails from researchers around the country eager to receive some of our brain samples, and then I review the most recent data about the tissue samples we are storing.
Each time I get up and head into the lab to check on my employees, I pass by a bowl of chocolates on my assistant’s desk. She always has candy out, and I always avoid it. I don’t like to eat unhealthily, especially sweets. But yesterday, the chocolates looked so good that I ate them throughout the day. I couldn’t stop. Today, it’s the same; every time I walk by, I grab another one and pop it in my mouth. Sweets have never tasted so irresistible.
Early one evening a few days after the physical therapy appointment, I’m in the kitchen, chopping vegetables and slicing meat to make a stir-fry for our dinner. I’m sipping a glass of wine, trying to relax, when I hear
