Love Untold

Love Untold: Chapter 21

Love Untold:  Chapter 21

Dr. Michael Newell studied the group in his office.  Chrissie’s mother and sister sat on a small, green damask sofa, clutching each other’s hands.  Chrissie, herself, sat in a matching armchair in front of the doctor’s desk, and Race paced rapidly behind her.

“What do you mean you couldn’t find anything?”

The neural surgeon removed his glasses with a heavy sigh, cleaned them with a handkerchief and then rubbed his eyes before replacing the black rimmed specs.  “Mr. Willard, please sit down.  It’s been a long day for all of us.”

Race grumbled, but he dropped down into a chair next to Chrissie.  Yes, it had been a long day.  A long week, actually, with nothing to show for the effort from everyone in the room except some photos of her brain and a thick folder containing the results of the last week.  Dr. Newell and his staff had been thorough.  Since Tuesday morning when Chrissie arrived for her first examination, she had been pricked and prodded and scanned and x-rayed and sonogrammed and made to sit or stand or lie under every electronic device in the state-of-the-art neural clinic.  There were EEG’s and CAT’s and MRI’s and a whole list of alphabet letters that Chrissie got jumbled up in her mind.  Dr. Newell even sent her over to the hospital for a few extra scans and tests by machinery that the clinic didn’t have on site.  She’d never been claustrophobic before this week’s experiences with the giant, white tubes in the clinic and hospital, but Heaven’s! she was now.

And the result?  Nothing.  Nada.  Nichts.  Zip, zilch, zero.  

She didn’t have a brain tumor, a spine tumor, or a foreign mass in any other part of her body -- and the medical staff checked e-ver-y-where.  She didn’t have a chemical imbalance or an infection or evidence of a stroke.  There was nothing wrong with her heart, her thyroid gland, her lungs, her liver, or any other gland or organ.  She showed no symptoms of Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s, Huntington’s or any of the other many neurodegenerative illnesses.  And she had not suffered any head trauma since that day in junior high when she fell off the ski lift and earned herself a minor concussion.

By all appearances -- microscopic, magnetic, radiologically and otherwise -- Chrissie was a healthy freak of nature, according to the neurological world of Dr. Newell.  And the poor doctor, intrigued by Chrissie’s case, cancelled as many of  his appointments and meetings during the week as he could, just to figure out what was wrong with her.  Chrissie distinctly recalled seeing excitement in the older gentleman’s eyes as he pondered her predicament, but now he just looked as tired as the rest of them.  Under other circumstances, she’d feel honored by his undivided attention, but as it was...

“We have ran and performed every test known to neural science in hopes of finding the reason behind your memory loss, Mrs. Willard,” Dr. Newell said, ignoring Race.  He got up and pointed a pen at a row of colorful brain scans lined up on his viewer screen.  “See this area here...”  He circled an orange mass on the scan.  “...this is your medial temporal lobe.  It is involved in developing your episodic memory, which is what we’re most concerned about.”

“Episodic memory?” Chrissie asked.  “Is there a difference in memories?”

“Yes,” Dr. Newell said with a smile.  “You know of short-term and long-term memories, correct?”

Everyone nodded.  He continued, “In your case, we’re dealing with long-term memory because your short-term can only file information for a short period of time before it is diverted to other parts of the brain.  In your long-term memory, there are different types as well.  There is implicit memory, which are your memories that you do not have to think about.  You do them by rote, like riding a bicycle or playing a piano or writing your name.  Once you’ve mastered those skills, they become a part of you.  The other type of long-term is explicit, which is where we are looking for anomalies.”

As the doctor rambled on, Chrissie had to hide a smile.  Race was groaning and putting his chin on his hands and staring wide-eyed at Dr. Newell, probably because the doctor was using that tone of voice like Dena did when she was explaining aspects of psychology, which always made Chrissie bleary-eyed just from listening to her.  Her mother watched the handsome doctor with fascination, and Dena looked bored.  Apparently she already knew all this.  

In the last four days, Chrissie had learned more about the brain than the average pre-med student, and Race stuck by her side every minute of the testings but had only gotten more and more depressed and angry.  She’d been watching him during these times together, and she’d catalogued more rampant emotions in his face than she’d ever seen on a man.  He looked at her with pride and adoration and grievance...sadness and agony, and once he had to leave the viewing room during a full-body CAT scan because he couldn’t bear to watch her disappear into that machine.  

He’d not gotten much sleep lately, either.  Chrissie’s sleep-walking continued, and many times during the night, she wake up to find him laying next to her, tears in his eyes, unable to do more than keep a vigil as she wondered through the house unaware.  Neither of them had gone back to work, and Dena and Dolly spent most of their free time away from the house to give Chrissie and him some space and privacy.  

Right now, Chrissie wanted all this over and done with.  She wanted one morning when she didn’t have to wake up and face another day of needles and radiation and a blur of new faces in a new lab.  And she wanted to laugh again.

And she wanted a drink.

“What is explicit memory?” Chrissie asked and ignored the shooting glance from Race.

“That particular section of memory is also divided up into categories,” Dr. Newell went on, and when Race huffed, Chrissie couldn’t hide her smile any more.  Okay, so this was some serious business.  There was something wrong with her, and no one could figure it out, but for the first time this week, she was enjoying herself, and she wasn’t about to have that squashed.

“Those are the semantic and episodic memories...the episodic being the one we are concentrating on.”

“Not semantic?” Chrissie asked.

“No, Mrs. Willard.  Semantic memory deals with textbook learning or general knowledge of the world.  It involves remembering and recalling concepts, information...trivia.  Like you know that two plus two equals four or that a bat is a mammal...”

“A bat is a mammal?” Chrissie replied with a grin, and Dena giggled, and her mother said, “Chrissie, dear, don’t be rude,” and Race groaned, “Chris, please...”

Chrissie looked at all of them, still smiling.  “I’m sorry, but it’s been an exhausting week for all of us, and I’m just trying to lighten the mood a little.”

Dr. Newell returned her smile and sat back down in his chair.  “I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.  That comes from the frontal lobe and the nucleus accumbens...and is also associated with both the semantic and episodic memories.”

“Dr. Newell,” Race groused, “could you please just get to the reason we’re all here?  What’s wrong with my wife?”

The doctor stared long and hard at Race and Chrissie, as though trying to figure out a puzzle.  Chrissie knew that look on the doctor.  He’d been giving it to the married couple since they’d been introduced.  “In my opinion, there is something deeper going on than just a physical abnormality in Chrissie’s brain.  Her episodic memory is the autobiographical aspect of your wife’s recollection.  It is responsible for remembering past experiences, such as the day you were married and so forth.  However, the parts of her brain that use, store and execute those memories is perfectly fine.”

Race stood up and started pacing again.  Chrissie’s heart broke for him.  He was taking this so hard.  “So we wasted our time for nothing?!”

“I wouldn’t say for nothing,” Dena piped up.  “We’ve eliminated physical cause.  Now we move onto the emotional and subconscious reasons for this.”

Race stopped and glared at his sister-in-law.  “Emotional and subconscious?  You’re saying this happened because of a...a...a mental breakdown?  Or that I’m responsible?”

Chrissie got up and stayed a hand on his arm.  “Race, no one is saying you’re responsible.”  He gazed at her with frustration and love in his eyes, and Chrissie wished she had the subjective power to hold him.  He’d been so kind these past few days, so devoted...so loving...  She’d only known him for a week, but she was pretty sure she was falling for him...despite the fact that they were already married.

He cradled her face with his hands, his blue eyes searing through her.  “Chris...whatever I did...whatever the reason...I...I...”

“Shh,” Chrissie soothed, putting a finger over his mouth.  God, she wished she could remember the past with him!  “I know, Race.  We’ll figure this out, okay?”

He pressed his forehead to hers.  “Please, just promise me...together, we keep doing this together...I can’t lose you...not again.”

Dr. Newell cleared his throat.  “If it helps, a colleague of mine up in Cleveland’s Neurological Clinic specializes in brain memory and it’s functions.  He’s the best in the world.  I can send him everything we’ve gather from your tests and examinations and let him take a look.  But it might be several weeks, or even months before he can get back to me.”

Chrissie nodded and turned to the doctor.  “That will be fine.  What should I do in the meantime?”

“Make an appointment with Dr. Gray, my on-staff psychologist, and I’d like to send you over to the sleep clinic for a night or two, just in case.  The brain functions differently when we sleep.  You can get that information at the front desk.”

Chrissie shook the doctor’s hand.  “Thank you, Dr. Newell.  You’ve been a great help.”

He smiled sadly.  “I only wish I could have done more, Mrs. Willard.”

“You’ve been wonderful,” she assured him, and her mother breathed out, “Yes, absolutely wonderful.”  Everyone blinked at Dolly, who was moony-eyed.

Good Lord, Chrissie groaned.  She grabbed her mother’s arm and steered her out of the office.  The last thing she needed right now was her mother complicating things further by getting involved with her doctor.  Thank goodness Dena kept their mother busy most of the week, or this would have been a very interesting four days.

At the front desk, Race filled out the necessary information while Dena ushered a protesting Dolly out to the car, and Chrissie felt a presence by her elbow.  She looked up into a pair of startling green eyes, surrounded by an even startling handsome face.  “You must be Chrissie Willard.  I’m Dr. Gray...Sebastian Gray,” the handsome face spoke, thrusting his hand out to her.  The hand was clasped by Race, who was by her side quicker than she could blink.

“Nice to meet you,” Race ground out, though he had a pleasant smile pasted on.  “I’m Race Willard and this is my wife, Chrissie.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Dr. Gray replied, unruffled by Race’s possessiveness.  “I’ve heard about your situation.”

“You have?” Chrissie asked, unable to look away from the green in his eyes.  She couldn’t decide if they were more of an apple-green shade or pistachio...two of her favorite green hues.

Dr. Gray chuckled warmly.  “Yes, I don’t think there’s a doctor or nurse in this clinic that hasn’t heard about Chrissie Willard by now.  You’ve become quite a celebrity.  Dr. Newell has everyone scrambling to diagnose you.”

“Well, as Dr. Newell just stated,” Race said stiffly, “my wife is just perfect.”

Dr. Gray shifted his glance to Chrissie.  “So, I’ve heard.”

It was then that she realized Race still had a hold of Dr. Gray’s hand.  The knuckles of both men were white with a powerful strain, and Chrissie gasped, slapping Race’s hand away.  “Knock it off,” she told him.  She turned back to the psychologist.  “Dr. Newell referred me to you.  I’d like to make an appointment--”

“We would like to make an appointment,” Race corrected, standing taller, although Dr. Gray had at least three inches on Race’s height.

The doctor smiled politely at both of them.  “Of course.  We can schedule a group session or an individual session.  Personally, I would recommend both, Mrs. Willard.  That way I can get a better idea on the dynamics of your psychological needs.”

“That will be great,” Chrissie said, elbowing Race in the ribs when he failed to make an equally appropriate reply.  “Yeah, great,” he muttered.

Dr. Gray nodded.  “Just set it up with the receptionist.  I look forward to talking to you, Mrs. Willard...and you, as well, Mr. Willard.”  He brushed past them, and Chrissie thought it must be the female intuition in her because she turned to watch him go.  He had a great walk.

Race snarled and growled all the way home.