‘You need to get yourself tested’, my wife said after yet another of my lapses, ‘you’re fast becoming a marble-free zone.’ I couldn’t disagree. Perhaps the relentless ‘mental ’elf’ craze had alerted me to my own flaws, though groping for names and words is, surely, excusable by 67. But I would often devour a book and, days later, struggle to remember not just title, author and plot but whether or not I’d actually read it. And could I reconstruct last week’s events, even in outline? No, of course I couldn’t.
The health insurer confirmed they do indeed ‘provide support for that’, the cost counting against my annual limit. I therefore fixed an appointment with the GP: ‘Very sensible to come in about this. Many of my patients are in denial, and usually very good at hiding symptoms, too. Early diagnosis is key. So how about starting with a basic cognitive test? First, here are three words for you to remember: TREE – HOUSE – GARDEN. OK?’ He then embarked on a series of verbal tests and, modesty aside, I put in a pretty robust performance.
‘Now, I’d like you to repeat those three words.’ TREE and GARDEN tripped off the tongue easily enough. But the third? It stubbornly refused to oblige. ‘Hmm. Maybe you should see a specialist,’ he concluded. ‘Dr J is very good. Leave it with me.’
Weeks later, Dr Juniper was taking me through a longer routine, partly humiliating (‘touch your left knee with your right hand’; ‘what’s your name and address?’), partly tricky (‘count down from 100 in sevens’) and partly a cinch (‘you’ve 60 seconds to say as many words starting with “P” as you can). Perversely, “psittacosis”, “ptarmigan” and, ironically, “pseud” came out first; but once I settled into “pit”, “pat”, “paddle”, “pot” etc., they fairly gushed forth.
Then Dr Juniper lay me flat while he poked at my abdomen, whacked my knees and had me raise my hands. ‘Oof. Bit of a tremor there… We really must arrange a scan… just to be on the safe side.’
It would take me over my insurance limit, but I could hardly row back now. So a few days later, I found myself lying stock-still in a giant cigar tube fighting insistent, unrequited itches while the MRI whirred and clattered menacingly around me. Juniper called up the images at our next meeting:
‘Overall, it doesn’t look too bad. Bit of damage at the back there, though… How many units a week did you say? It’d be wise to see Professor Macaroni, at the Neurological Hospital. She’s top of her game and one simply can’t be too sure.’
‘Are you quite sure you’re testing me for the right things?’
The delightful Professor Macaroni conducted a third test, this time spatial and chromatic as much as linguistic: choose the missing shape; complete the sequence; match the colour to the word – plus a few trick questions. Again, it went well. ‘I don’t think you have a big issue,’ she said eventually, ‘you’ve certainly got an excellent vocabulary. In my view, you suffer from lapses in concentration. I’ll send my report to Dr Juniper.’
At our third appointment, Juniper concluded: ‘Not too much to worry about, I’m pleased to say. But it’s good to have a baseline for next time. Because you’ll be back. Something will trigger it – I can’t say what, exactly – but I’m almost certain about that.’
‘Are you quite sure you’re testing me for the right things, though? I mean, I really can’t remember anything much at all. My poor wife’s going spare!’
‘Of course. These are tried and tested procedures. But keep eating plenty of nuts, greens and oily fish; cut back on those units; keep up the crosswords and Scrabble; and step up the exercise. Most important: don’t you worry.’
Still, worry I do. Because six sessions and a small fortune later, I have no diagnosis, certainly no ‘early’ one calling for treatment beyond predictable lifestyle changes. There’s nothing much wrong, apparently, but I should expect some unidentified trigger to send me back for more investigations soon… Cognitive dissonance, or what? Meanwhile, I feel myself inching ever closer to Marina’s marble-free zone.
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