Mr. Nobody(4)

Their expressions settle when they clock my doctor ID lanyard; it tends to have that effect. Over the years, I’ve noticed the doctor’s lanyard tends to illicit either relief or apprehension.

I flick off my angry pager and plop it back in its pocket. Doctors are some of the only people left in the world you’re likely to see carrying pagers. We still use them because they’re reliable. Unlike mobile phones, pagers don’t have dead zones; they work everywhere, even on the heavily insulated X-ray wards of a hospital. And they don’t run out of battery after a few hours; pagers can run for over a week between charges. And they’re durable. Throw them as hard as you possibly can against a concrete wall while crying, for example, and they just won’t die.

When I enter the room in question I find a junior doctor, two nurses, and Mr. Davidson’s forty-year-old son standing impotently by as the bedbound Mr. Davidson continues to shout, his voice quavering at the assembled group, tears rolling softly down his tired, crinkly face. All heads turn to me as I enter. The lanyard does its thing.

The junior doctor throws me an imploring look, his expression telling me he’d be more than happy for me to take over. I give him a nod. This is, after all, why they paged me.

Mr. Davidson’s screaming and the general vibe in the room make it clear that an impasse has been reached. Mr. Davidson doesn’t want to be touched or manhandled.

“Good morning, Mr. Davidson,” I say brightly, trying to top his energy.

There’s a slight break in the rhythm of his yells. He looks at me, surprised, and I continue with his full attention. “My name is Dr. Lewis. Do you remember me, Mr. Davidson? I’m your doctor. Emma Lewis.” I give him a reassuring smile as if to say, Of course you remember me, we’re old friends.

    He clings to my smile, seduced from his train of thought, and his yelling finally subsides. He gives me a tentative nod. Not fully invested in the idea that we know each other just yet.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong, Mr. Davidson?”

His tearstained face uncrumples as he struggles to unpick my question.

“Are you in pain, Mr. Davidson? Whereabouts do you feel it?” I nudge him on. He looks away from me now, toward the window.

It’s hard to tell to what extent Mr. Davidson recognizes me, if he does at all. Howard Davidson has problems accessing and storing memory; I’ve been treating him for three weeks, ever since he was admitted. Recognition is a complex neurological process and humans are very, very good at masking the absence of it. People adapt around memory losses. They rely on other things—visual cues, social cues—they get good at reading people, situations; they find ways around things until an answer presents itself. But regardless of whether Howard Davidson recognizes me, he trusts me, he’s stopped shouting, and that is definitely progress.

I approach his bed cautiously. He turns to look up at me with his big wet eyes, curious, and exhausted. I gently place a hand on his arm as reassurance.

He peers down at my hand, his chest rising and falling as he fights to get his breath back to normal. He doesn’t pull away from my touch, he doesn’t lash out. Patients with memory disorders can often become uncharacteristically aggressive, physically violent, but when his gaze floats back up to me it isn’t hostile, it’s entreating.

“Where exactly are you feeling the pain, Mr. Davidson?” I ask again, softly.

He takes in air in great heaves, not a huge surprise—he’s been yelling continuously at the top of his voice for quite a while to a confused and frankly deeply concerned audience. As he stares up at me, gulping in snatched breaths, he looks like a man lost in a foreign country.

    He taps his chest. His heart. That’s my answer. The answer to my question. That’s where he feels the pain: in his heart.

I nod and give his arm another gentle squeeze.

I understand.

Mr. Davidson nods back solemnly, and promptly bursts into a cataclysm of coughs.

There’s nothing wrong with his heart—well, not physically, anyway. What’s physically wrong with Howard Davidson is his brain. As far as Howard is concerned he’s a thirty-two-year-old man trapped inside the body of a seventy-eight-year-old. He woke up three weeks ago with no memory of the last forty-six years of his life. In his mind he left his house in 1973 and woke up here, an old man. What’s wrong with Howard Davidson is visible only on a scan. Large sections of his neocortex have atrophied, died. All the memories stored in those areas are gone; a huge portion of his life, to his mind, never happened. Three weeks ago, he was fine, pottering around his garden, walking his dog, reading, deep in the flow of his own life, enjoying his retirement, but that old man is gone now.

Howard Davidson was found wandering down the middle of a four-lane highway near Shepherd’s Bush, and brought to the emergency room. After we ascertained from his relatives that he had no history of Alzheimer’s, that up until that morning he had apparently been quite happily enjoying the life of a retired MP, an MRI scan was taken.

The atrophy present in the brain scan was found to be indicative of vascular dementia, specifically single-infarct dementia. A single stroke had instantly killed off a massive portion of his hippocampus.

Forty-six years of life and memories erased in the blink of an eye. He has no recollection of having had children, or running for office, and he still believes he lives with his young wife, Ginny, near Goldhawk Road. All long-term memories end there.