Briefing for a Descent Into Hell - Doris May Lessing [78]
Wife hysterical subject, better kept away from patient for the time being, in my opinion.
DOCTOR X.
Doctor X, I simply have to see you.
Ah, Mrs. Watkins, I thought you had gone back home. Well, sit down, I’m very pleased to see you. Now, what can I do for you?
What can you do for me! Doctor X, he’s been here now nearly two months.
Yes, I’m afraid he has. But he is better, we think.
How do you judge betterness, then? How? You say he didn’t know who he was when he came in here. And he still doesn’t. So why is he better?
He’s better in himself. More rested.
Rested? Was he ill when he came in?
No, he didn’t have flu, or bronchitis.
I know I am very stupid Doctor. I know that. But it doesn’t help me when you are sarcastic. You say he is better. But I’ve never seen him look so awful. Never. He’s so thin. And he seems shaky and weak.
It is very understandable that you are upset.
Oh thanks. Thanks very much.
Look at it from our point of view. Your husband was brought in here nearly two months ago, by the police, in a state of shock, having been robbed, without papers, money, or knowledge of who he was. He was talking to himself, hallucinated, he had religious delusions and he was paranoiac. We did what we could to get him better, that’s all.
And you say he is better?
In my opinion he is better.
Can I see Doctor Y?
Certainly, but he isn’t here today.
He wasn’t here yesterday either. He wrote to me about my husband, you see.
He does two days a week at another hospital.
When will he be here?
Tomorrow.
Can I see him then?
Certainly. Tell the office on your way out that you will be back tomorrow, and ask them to make an appointment.
Oh please don’t think that I want to be rude, Doctor, I don’t.
Not at all. We are quite used to it Mrs. Watkins.
Oh Doctor Y, I stayed over in town to see you.
And I’m very pleased that you did. How do you think your husband is?
How do I know? How can I tell? Oh, I think he looks awful, awful … I don’t see how it is possible!
Oh, believe me, it happens.
No, no, I don’t mean that. That people don’t lose their memories. But … are you married, Doctor?
Yes, I am.
How long have you been married?
Nine years. No, ten.
Imagine you walk into your bedroom tonight when you go home, and your wife is there, and she looks at you and talks exactly as she always does and then suddenly she says she doesn’t know who you are.
Yes, Mrs. Watkins, I have tried to imagine it happening. I really have tried.
But … I’m not complaining about that. I don’t seem to be able to make myself understood. It is this—how can you say he has lost his memory then?
Now I don’t understand … cigarette? They are bringing some tea in a minute.
If he has lost his memory, then why does he speak as he always speaks. The same phrases. Everything the same.
Ah, now I understand.
If he had lost his memory, if he really didn’t know who he was, then he’d be like a—newborn baby.
In some respects I’m afraid that he is.
No, I don’t think he is. If what he was before is cancelled out—washed away, then he might just as well come back to us as—oh I don’t know, a South Sea Islander, or a German or a man from Mars or something.
I see your point. I do, really. Ah, here is the tea.
Thank you. So it isn’t that he has lost his memory. He is still who he was. He just doesn’t remember—me. And the children.
He says he doesn’t remember anything at all. Not his childhood. Nor his parents. Nothing.
Yet, Doctor Y, when you say to him, Do you remember your childhood, he says, No, I don’t remember my childhood. He doesn’t say—oh I don’t know, Gobbledegook, or Worra worra worra worra. Oh I wasn’t making a joke, I assure you. I’m very far from making jokes. Oh, God, I know it is stupid to cry.
Mrs. Watkins, would you like to see him again—that is, if he agrees. It might help.
If who agrees?
Yes, I do see your point. But don’t you see, I’m as much in the dark as you are. More. You know him well and I don’t. If you talked to him again, let him get used to