The Goldfish

Second Neurologist Appointment, March 22, 2021

            “You won’t have to draw a clock,” I reassured Mom, when I reminded her of the appointment I’d set with the second neurologist. The first neurologist had fallen onto Mom’s bad list due to making her draw a clock and using words like dementia and parkinsonian. I’d found a female neurologist, hoping the combination of being female and someone different than “that man,” as Mom referred to the first neurologist, might make her more amenable to appointments. 

            A contradiction of sorts, Dr. Stoman was tiny, maybe five-feet tall, wearing cute jeans and a sweater that she probably had to buy in the children’s department. However small her stature, she was a spunky, confident woman who held space in a room like someone twice her size. Her direct manner held no punches, but the hit was delivered in a sweet voice disarming any opponent. I immediately liked her, so did Mom.  

            After asking Mom a series of routine questions she turned to me. “How would you describe your experience with your mom’s memory?” she said. What an interesting question, I thought, a little taken back, because no one had asked me how I experienced Mom’s memory loss. 

            Choosing my words carefully, I looked at Mom who sat next to me, back-in-five stare fixed on the picture on the wall. “Sometimes I get frustrated with her,” I said, slowly. “Just having to repeat everything, but then I feel bad because it’s not her fault.” 

            Without missing a beat, Dr. Stoman lifted her eyes from her notes and looked directly at me. “It’s like a goldfish,” she said, and I felt my stomach drop. “The short-term memory can’t hold things beyond a couple of moments.” Oh my god, did you just compare Mom to a goldfish? I waited for Mom to get upset, but she didn’t react. I struggled not to smile. All I could think about was the orange cartoon-like goldfish with big bubble eyes swimming around in my head. 

            The doctor’s voice interrupted my cartoon fantasy. “I’m going to make a referral for physical therapy. It can help with Parkinson's symptoms,” said said, talking directly to Mom now. Good luck getting her to do that, I thought. 

            In the elevator on our way to the car, I had a hard time not seeing the orange cartoon goldfish when I looked at Mom. “I think physical therapy is a really good idea,” I said to the big bubble eyes.

            “I'll think about it,” the goldfish replied. That means no.

            Later, I would recount the story to Danielle, who was equally stunned that Mom hadn’t reacted. “The goldfish” became a new moniker, never in Mom’s presence and only between Danielle and I.  “Were you with the goldfish today?” Danielle would ask. “The goldfish thinks the ladies are stealing her pills,” I’d say and so on… I had to laugh, or I would literally scream at having to repeat myself all the time. “The goldfish” was like a billboard with a little orange cartoon fish with big bubble eyes staring at me, reminding me to have patience.