“No. Her hair’s going to take a long time,” I say lamely. “I think she can wait until you’re back from vacation.”
Her intense stare is magnified behind the glasses, and I’m worried at the amount of time she regards the signature line on the form. “Just a minute, please.”
She disappears into the other room. I assume she’s getting Deborah’s file out of a locked cabinet, and I impatiently tap my foot. My eyes glance at the impressive array of diplomas on the wall. She went to a top-tier university in the Midwest for her undergraduate studies and a prestigious university for her doctoral degree. There are some additional certificates she’s obtained for psychotherapy and hypnotherapy techniques. This puts me a little more at ease, but I’m still distraught at what’s transpired with my mother.
Dr. Alacoy returns with a color-coded file open to compare the form I’ve given her with what must be a signature in her file. “Did you want copies? I will have to charge you for those.”
“Yes, please.”
“I don’t have a receptionist, so it’s going to take a minute. Let me do that first.” She points to a chair in front of her desk. “Go ahead and take a seat.”
Anxiously chewing my nails, I wait for her to return.
Taking a seat behind her desk, she motions to the other room. “I’ll put the records in an envelope when we’re done.” She crosses her legs. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“I’m worried about my mother, Dr. Alacoy.”
“I must insist you call me Alice.”
“Okay,” I agree. “My mother . . . she isn’t stable.”
Alice starts to open her mouth, then shuts it. “I’ll let you ask the questions.”
“I’m worried about the medication she’s on. The pain pills she’s taking.” I bite my lip. “I’ve done my research, and these antipsychotic drugs seem to make her worse, or so I presume because of the side effects.”
Alice laces her hands together, the quintessential listener.
“She’s losing touch with reality, or that’s how it seems to me.”
“Please elaborate on what you mean.”
“She imagines things that aren’t there. People.” I wait for a reaction but get none. I give another example. “Even the other day, she thought I was somebody else.”
“Wait! Let’s discuss this further.” She leans forward. “You mean she called you by the wrong name?”
“Yes. Not only that, but she accused me of being someone else. Like I was inhabiting another person’s body. I’m not sure if this is a result of her meds or why she would act like I was a stranger.”
“Hmm . . . not likely.”
“Could that vicious attack she had when she was hit with a gun or previous head injuries have caused some type of brain damage?”
“Yes to both. I’m glad you’re here because maybe you can check some boxes for me.” She pushes her glasses up on her nose. “Do you know much about your mother’s background, her history?”
“Some, not all.”
“Any drinking or heavy drug use?”
“If you mean pain meds, then yes.” I cross my arms. “Is there a reason she’s on so many potent medications?”
She raises her brow. “Why, yes, there is.” Alice reaches a hand out to gently touch mine. “Permission to be frank?”
“Please,” I beg. “Of course.”
“I have a suspicion, unproven at this point, of course, that she’s starting to show signs of Lewy body disease.”
I lean back in my chair. “I’m not really sure what that is.”
“It’s rare.”
“I think I’ve heard of it . . .”
“A famous actor had it. It’s not an agreeable disease, not that there is one.” She sighs heavily. “But it’s devastating for the patient . . . and their family.”
“I don’t know what to say.” I feel the prick of tears signaling I’m about to lose my shit.
“The problem is, a diagnosis can take a year or longer to determine. Other neurodegenerative diseases mimic the same symptoms, so it’s not a quick discovery, rather a slow process. We don’t want to rush to a conclusion, since it could hinder her progress if we’re wrong.”
“Please tell me you’re wrong.” My voice quivers.
“There’s another thing. I don’t want to go down a rabbit hole, but there’s something else, even rarer, with parallels to your mother’s symptoms.”
Now I’m on the edge of my seat, sweating bullets as pit stains soak through my short-sleeve shirt.
“It’s called Capgras syndrome, also known as the imposter syndrome.”
My gaping mouth must give away my skepticism.
“It’s a real thing,” Alice promises. “Named after the French psychiatrist who discovered it.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“That’s because it’s very uncommon. It usually occurs as a result of something else. In this case”—she ticks off all the scary ones on her fingers—“Alzheimer’s, paranoid schizophrenia, and Lewy body.”
“And what does this Capgras syndrome do?”
“It’s a neurological disorder that causes damage to the . . .” She starts to spout some long medical words outside my vocabulary.
Noticing my blank expression, she swiftly stops. “Sorry, I tend to get all scientific. Basically, it’s damage to the brain that causes impairment. In this case, it can range from the inability to recognize faces to something more malignant.”
“Like how much more harmful?”
She’s thoughtful in her answer. “Let’s say a person is infuriated with someone. In this case, it’s a rage that causes them to use ‘splitting’ as their defense mechanism.”
“Splitting?”
“The person believes their anger is toward an imposter, someone imitating the actual individual. This thought process allows them to still consider their family or friend separate from their rage, as if a different identity. In a way, the person ‘splits’ into two different individuals. This belief allows them to proceed.”
My jaw drops. “So you’re saying my mother might be seeing double?”
“Yes, but it’s extraordinarily uncommon, Sibley.”
Flabbergasted, I rest my hands on my knees.
“I should add, she doesn’t necessarily see double in the sense that there’s two of you but that you’re replacing someone else.”
“She did call me another name,” I confess.
“What was it?”
“Another S name. Sore-in.”
“Wait!” A shadow of recognition crosses her face. “Did you say Soren?”
“Yeah.” I jump out of my chair. “Do you know who that is?”
“Deborah saw a woman outside during one
