Confusion

By Freya Berenyi

The small rounded woman crossed her arms with a savage roughness that conveyed her immense irritation. Slumping back in the pillows she frowned at the man surveying her. “I don’t understand why you’re keeping me here. It’s ridiculous! You’re just trying to make some extra money.” The doctor sighed inaudibly as he explained yet again the necessity of keeping her in hospital until they discovered what was causing her symptoms. She thrust her jaw upwards, her frown deepening. “Don’t lie to me,’ she spat. “Just get me out of this place.” “Ms Jenkins, it’s very important you stay here. You’re not well at the moment. You could do more harm to yourself if you went home. Do you know where you are at the moment?”
“Yes, in hospital.” She turned away dismissively.
“Which one?”
“How should I know?” Came the abrupt reply.
“Do you know what year it is?”
“Oh, enough with the questions!” She turned with her back towards him, ending the exchange with a vicious finality.
Dr Matthews scraped the curtains back from around the bed and strode towards the door, reporting his findings to the young doctor behind him, who was simultaneously attempting to write and pull out medical charts for him to review.

A teenage boy at the entrance to the room stopped Dr Matthews as he passed. “Are you the doctor looking after my mum?” The younger doctor nodded her confirmation. “I was just wondering – “ he faltered, staring at his battered runners as he attempted to mumble out the rest of the sentence. “Do you think she’ll get better? You know, be back to normal?” He squinted briefly up at Dr Matthews who grimaced in sympathy. “It’s difficult to tell at this stage as we haven’t confirmed her diagnosis. The changes in her mental state may just be due to an infection, which should resolve with treatment, or it could be due to something else. We’ll let you know once the results of the other tests come back.” The boy nodded and scrunched his eyes tightly, willing hot tears not to seep from the corners of his stinging eyes. “It’s just – well – I don’t think it’s her in there anymore. I just don’t think my mum and that woman could be the same person.” The doctors exchanged glances.
“Do you have anyone else that you could call to come into the hospital? Your father?”
“No. It’s just mum and me. We don’t see the rest of the family.” He paused as he watched an old man shuffle past, clinging to his i.v pole. “My grandmother had a nasty streak apparently.” He stared desperately into the pitying eyes surveying him. ”But what if mum inherited it? I don’t want to end up hating my mum like she hates hers.”
“This must be incredibly difficult for you. We’ll get someone to come and discuss your issues with you soon.”

Damien dismally watched the two doctors hurry away down the corridor. It was ok for them, they only had to see her for a couple of minutes each day. He had spent days by her bedside now. Sometimes she didn’t recognise him, sometimes she did. Sometimes recognition was worse, as she could then say things that truly hurt – her disappointments, fears and shattered dreams tumbling in a torrent of anger and antipathy. Her voice rose and became more defiant during these rants, forcing the other occupants of the room to politely pretend they couldn’t hear, feigning absorption in menial activities. Had these resentments been simmering below the surface for the first seventeen years of his life? Or was the brain problem just sending confusing signals and making her think differently? He didn’t understand. Some days he almost wished it was a tumour, so at least he could begin to forgive her for some of the worst comments. But most days he just wished so desperately for her to return so he could be reminded of what that other person had been like. But perhaps the other person had been the imposter; a happy, loving, caring mother, and this rude, acerbic woman had merely been restrained by societal proprieties. The thought made him want to curl into a tight ball and never unfurl. He had thought he had known everything about the one person he loved most in the world. But he had been forced to discover recently that sickness could make unconditional love suddenly became a much greater challenge. The recurring thought throughout these awful contemplations was that perhaps his reaction reflected more about him than it did his mother. He wished his mind would stop.

Later, as Damien observed his mother poke food around on her plate, taste it and then spit it out on the bed, he resolved to change. If he ended up in this state at the age of forty-seven years, he wanted to feel reassured knowing he’d already had half a lifetime of good deeds to make up for it. But his mother would get better. She had been fine several weeks ago. It was just a brain infection. Food splattered across his jeans as the spoon his mother had been holding was flung to the floor. He didn’t know whether these random gestures and movements with her arms were deliberate or part of the sickness. It was hard to tell what sort of person lay beneath the stony stare and downturned smile. A cold and calculating one? Or someone trapped in a body and mind they couldn’t control? Her blue eyes slid slowly over to meet his. They contained no warmth. People say the power of the mind can do extraordinary things. Perhaps with enough hope and will on his behalf she would recover quickly. Maybe the experience might help her reconcile with her mother, having had an empathy-inducing experience.

Damien looked up at the sound of footsteps and the soft, rapid murmurings preceding the entrance of the doctors into the room. “Good afternoon Ms Jenkins,” Dr Matthews enunciated slowly.
“How should I know if it is? You’ve kept me trapped in here for so long I don’t even remember what the sun feels like!”
Dr Matthews, ignored the rebuff and continued. “We’ve got the results from the brain scans and other tests. We’ve found changes in your brain that are consistent with Huntington’s disease.” The woman froze and seemed to shrink into the pillows. “No. No, I don’t. I don’t have Huntington’s. Stop making up illnesses for me. You’ve been talking to my mother, haven’t you?” She snarled accusatorily.
“No, I’ve never met your mother and we’ve had no contact with her. However, the condition is inherited to it’s likely one of your parents may have been affected. Do you remember anyone in your family being diagnosed with a brain disease?”
Damien sat frozen in his chair as the words of the doctor jumbled into a distant murmuring around him. Inherited. He looked up as he felt the eyes around the room on him and realised he’d been speaking. “If it’s inherited,” he whispered, straining to keep his voice level, “Will I turn into this person too?”

Freya Berenyi is currently studying Medicine at Monash University. She has a strong interest in social justice and health issues, particularly those involving mental health. Her placement experiences within the Victorian healthcare system have provided a stimulus for her short stories.