Chapter 7 - The Diagnosis
The doctor spoke carefully.
There wasn't one simple explanation that magically erased what happened.
Mom had significant visual-processing problems and cognitive changes that required treatment, monitoring, and ongoing assessment. Some contributors might be manageable; others might progress.
The uncertainty frightened Mom more than any label could have.
“Will I forget Sarah?”
The doctor paused.
“We don't know exactly how your symptoms will develop.”
Mom looked at me.
“What about Noah?”
I squeezed her hand.
“He'll know you love him.”
She cried.
Then she asked the question I had been dreading.
“Will you ever trust me with him again?”
I answered truthfully.
“Not alone.”
Her hand went limp inside mine.
But I continued.
“That doesn't mean you lose him.”
She looked up.
“You can see him. You can play with him. You can read to him. We'll be there.”
“I raised you.”
“I know.”
“And now you supervise me?”
“When you're with Noah, yes.”
She closed her eyes.
I expected anger.
Instead she whispered:
“Okay.”
One word.
But it represented the first time my mother accepted a boundary without fighting it.
I thought that meant the worst was behind us.
I was wrong.
Because three days later, a woman I had never met called me.
She introduced herself as Linda.
Then she said:
“Your mother gave me your number months ago. She told me to call you if she ever started forgetting who you were.”
I gripped the phone.
“Who are you?”
Linda hesitated.
May you like
“I'm the person who's been helping your mother hide this from you.”
---
