Slow Dancing with a Stranger Read Online Free PDF Page A

bathroom and couldn’t figure his way out—went unmentioned.
    The only way to keep Harvey from jumping out of his chair and bolting for the door was to relate everything back to a shared concern that “whatever” was going on with him threatened to dismantle his career. Then the doctor and Harvey disappeared into the examining room for no more than twenty minutes. When they returned, the doctor looked at me, while winking at Harvey, and said, “No need to worry. The examination shows no gross abnormalities. You’ve upset yourself unnecessarily. Your husband may be suffering from stress and a bit of depression. I have a prescription for the stress, and for the other, I recommend the two of you take a long-overdue vacation.” I panicked, knowing that Harvey was scheduled to give an important speech and had a trip to London planned to attend a medical meeting the following week. I desperately needed the doctor to intervene, but he was dismissive. On the way out he said to Harvey, “You’re fine. You can do anything you want to do, but lighten up your caseload and have this prescription filled. And little lady, your husband is in great physical shape and knows exactly what he is doing. Get off his back. Time to relax.”
    I was shocked by the doctor’s refusal to respect what I had to say. In presenting the information, I had forced myself to speak in an analytic, almost detached manner, despite my rising panic at what was happening in my own home. Yet I was still being dismissed as some kind of overwrought, anxious spouse. Trying to keep my annoyance in check, I asked for a copy of the examination report before we left. I knew it was just a matter of time before NIH would require documentation that Harvey was still fit to work, and our lawyer would need to officially offer it for Harvey’s record. A glance at Harvey’s chart showed that my detailed notes plotting the dates of specific changes in behavior were missing. The neurologist had let professional courtesy extend too far. Noted and underlined in the report was the doctor’s much more benign conclusion: “No gross abnormalities,” along with a prescription for an antipsychotic to treat depression.
    As soon as we left the doctor’s office with report in hand, Harvey attacked. He warned me not to insult him again. His basic message was that what went on at work was his business and not mine. That fateful encounter left me tiptoeing carefully around Harvey, who grew even more headstrong and obstinate after his escape with a clean bill of health. I knew that Harvey had been on his best behavior with the neurologist and managed to pull it together enough to make it through the examination, but I was certain that eventually the charade would catch up with him.
    Unfortunately, it was not a conscious game for Harvey. He was in denial about any deficit, his skill as a diagnostician undermined by the unperceived creep of mild cognitive impairment. Yet he volunteered that he had temporarily taken himself off patient care as a precaution until he felt better. My son’s wife, Dana, was working on her master’s thesis in social work and interning at NIH. She observed Harvey in the NIH library, staring at his research and then disappearing into the stacks. Dana reported to me that she often walked back with him to his office under the pretense she was headed to the same floor in the Clinical Center.
    My work suffered as I tried to keep up with my demanding job while running interference for Harvey. I lived every day anticipating a crisis, running through what-if scenarios before I left in the morning and before I went to sleep at night. It was hard to concentrate on what was happening at work or get excited about new assignments. I jumped each time the phone rang, assuming the worst. There was no time for living in denial with him. I was now the point person for two, with one of the two resisting my efforts every