Chapter 24, Part 1
Conner squeezed my hand as we
followed Hannah to Dr. O’Rourke’s office. I glanced at the framed art reproductions
that adorned the corridor walls; several looked familiar. As soon as we entered
his office, I detected the aromas of cinnamon, apple and coffee, but I couldn’t
see any lunch leftovers or candles or anything.
“This is Conner Golden, Doctor.” She
then turned toward us, nodded and with a face-lit smile announced, “Mr. and
Mrs. Golden.” Hannah then indicated the neurologist with her open palm. “And
this is Dr. O’Rourke.” She left and pulled the door closed behind her. My heart
quickened.
The man whom I recognized from the
website smiled, stood up and came around his desk to greet us. He was several
inches shorter than Sam and only an inch or so taller than me. The doctor’s
bowtie was not the same as the one in his website portrait. This one’s butterflied
wings were deep red and arrayed with narrow, bright blue and yellow diagonal
stripes. His temples were gray; the rest of his head was covered with dark,
medium-length hair parted on the left. The crown of his head had a neat, round
bald spot that reminded me of the tonsure that monks wore in paintings from the
Middle Ages. The corners of his light-blue eyes wrinkled with a warm smile. A
slight paunch pushed aside the edges of his unbuttoned knee-length white coat.
Dr. O’Rourke smiled even more broadly
as he extended his hand to Conner. Our boy pressed against his father’s torso.
Sam smiled and gently pushed Conner out in front of him with his palm. Our
child’s eyes widened as he looked up at the neurologist with a guarded
expression.
At Sam’s encouragement, he extended
his arm and shook the doctor’s hand. He reached for mine with his other hand
and looked down. His small palm was icy-cold.
The doctor leaned forward and
regarded Conner’s hand. Several of the fingers were stained with blue and red
ink that I couldn’t remove from his recent art project. “Hello, Conner. I’m Dr.
O’Rourke. It’s very nice to meet you. I see that you’ve been doing some
painting.”
Conner looked at his right hand,
which was mostly enveloped in the doctor’s. Then he cast a sideways glance at
the doctor and flashed a shy smile.
“I’m so sorry, Dr. O’Rourke. I
couldn’t wash off all of the ink from Conner’s hands. My son is into mythology,
and he likes to draw and paint Greek and Roman and Egyptian characters.”
Still leaning over Conner, he
exclaimed, “Mythology! Hey, now! Wow! And you are only in the third grade?
You’re eight, right?”
“I’m eight and a half.” Conner
cocked his head and grinned with widened eyes. Sam and I both smiled at our
son’s brisk retort.
The neurologist nodded several times
and looked up at us. His broad grin exposed a small chip off his left
lower-front tooth. “That’s a pretty sophisticated subject for a third-grader.
You must be really smart.”
The small talk was helping our son
get comfortable with this man in the white coat. I saw him turn his attention
to the certificates and pictures on the walls and to the books on the shelves
as we chatted.
“Do you also know the Scandinavian
stories and the Native American mythology tales too, Conner?” Dr. O’Rourke
cocked his head, raised his eyebrows and waited for his young patient’s
response.
Conner grinned with growing
enthusiasm. “Oh yeah. I know pretty much all of them. They’re on my computer. I
have tons of mythology games. I play with Zeus and the Titans and the Greek Underworld.
There’s some stuff about the Vikings too, but not much about the American
Indian ones.” Conner waved his hands and shifted his weight from foot to foot
as he described his favorite mythology games to the neurologist.
I smiled and felt a bursting feeling
in my chest. Sam had a proud grin.
“That is wonderful, Conner.” The doctor indicated three matching dark-green
cushioned chairs in front of his desk. “Please! Everyone have a seat. Why don’t
you sit here, Conner,” he pointed to the middle chair. Dr. O’Rourke lowered
himself into a cordovan-shaded leather armchair behind his large mahogany desk.
“I’ve been reading Dr. Choy’s notes,
and I’ve had a look at the results of all of your lab tests, Conner. I’m
pleased to say that everything seems normal.” He smiled at me and then at Sam.
“That’s great news. Let me explain more about the records that I’ve seen.”
Even though the doctor’s friendly
and confident demeanor was reassuring, I couldn’t relax. My jaws clamped and my
hands pressed down in my lap. There was some pressure in the sides of my head
and I breathed quickly.
The neurologist placed both hands on
the desk and leaned toward us. Sam leaned forward too, and clasped his hands
between his legs. I was aware of my rapid breathing; I tried to control it. I
exhaled and sat back in my chair. I crossed my legs. Conner’s brows furrowed
which added to his cautious, serious expression.
“Conner, do you want to see pictures
of your brain on the CT scan? They’re really interesting.” Dr. O’Rourke angled
the computer monitor so we all could see the images. “Have you studied the body
and the brain in school yet?”
“No.” Conner stood up and leaned
against the desk.
“That’s right. Get close so that you
can see,” Dr. O’Rourke said.
Conner propped his elbows on the
desk and cupped his chin and cheeks in both palms. “Gee! Wow! My brain! It
looks just like on TV shows, only this is way
cooler. That’s really me? That’s
really my brain?”
I looked at the black, gray and
white images on his computer monitor.
The neurologist smiled at Conner.
“Yes, it is. This is your brain. Here are your smelling nerves, your eyes and
ears.” His index finger showed us where Conner’s balancing center was and the
muscles that made his eyeballs move. Then he explained how thinking, speaking,
comprehending, remembering, moving, seeing, touching and feeling happened in
specific parts of the brain as he indicated them.
He indicated the cerebrospinal fluid
that surrounded the brain and filled the chambered ventricles. “Dr. Choy obtained
some of this fluid from your lower back when he took care of you in the
emergency room, Conner. It was a very important part of your examination, and
it was entirely normal.”
Conner reached behind and touched
his lower back. His eyes widened and his mouth opened as he turned toward me.
“That’s why I had that Band-Aid on my back when I came home from the hospital,
right Mom?”
I nodded and touched my son’s
shoulder. He turned back to the doctor.
Sam leaned closer to the screen.
The neurologist sat back and propped
his elbows on the armrests. He steepled his fingers under his chin. “Everything
in your brain looks normal, Conner. Now, let’s find out how it’s working.”
Conner stiffened. “You’re not going
to give me any shots, are you?” I saw his glare at a small red ball that was on
the tip of a long, thin pin protruding from the lapel of the doctor’s white
coat.
I touched Conner’s neck. I wondered
what the neurologist did with that long pin in his lapel. I counted three pens
and a small flashlight in his left breast pocket. A thin handle with a pointed
end protruded from the side pocket of his white coat. I glanced over the framed
diplomas and certificates on the walls. I got a sense that they were staring
down at my son, and modern medical science and all of its mystery were about to
scrutinize him. My hands were cold.
“Conner, right now I’m going to ask
you some questions about how you’re feeling. Then we will all go into the exam
room, and I’ll check you out there. Your parents can come too; there won’t be
any shots or blood tests.” He smiled at Sam and me.
I appreciated how Dr. O’Rourke
reassured our boy. Still, Conner anxiously snapped his head around to look at
his father. Sam nodded back. Then he glanced down at the spot where his IV had
been. The bruise on his arm was mostly faded and had turned a pale
bluish-yellow. He rubbed his arm and looked at Dr. O’Rourke.
Sam glanced over at me. We were
poised to say something or to touch our son to reassure him. However, there he
was, listening and seeming to understand everything the doctor said.
“Now, do you remember the night that
the seizure happened?” The doctor looked down at the papers on his desk. “When
was that, about a week and a half ago?”
I nodded. “Uh-huh.”
Conner tilted his head and frowned.
“I didn’t feel good.”
Lance Fogan, M.D. is Clinical
Professor of Neurology at the David Geffen School of
Medicine at UCLA.
“DINGS” is his
first novel. It is a mother’s dramatic story that teaches epilepsy, now available in eBook, audiobook
and soft cover editions.
