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.
