Left Neglected

Chapter 8





What’s the matter, Sarah, you don’t want your lunch?” asks the nurse.

I’ve been staring at yet another bowl of chicken noodle soup for a while wondering how to tackle it. It smells good. I’m sure it smells infinitely better than it will taste, and it looks a bit congealed now, but I’m starving. I want to eat it.

“I don’t have a spoon.”

The nurse looks at my tray and then back up at me.

“How about the brownie?” she asks.

I look at the tray I’ve been keeping company and then back up at her.

“What brownie?”

Seemingly out of nowhere, the nurse produces a spoon in her hand and plunks a cellophane-wrapped brownie on the tray next to the bowl of soup. I stare at her as if she’s about to pull a quarter out from behind my ear.

“You didn’t see these on your tray?” she asks, handing me the spoon.

“They weren’t on my tray.”

“But you see them now,” she says, more conclusive than curious.

“Uh-huh.”

I slurp a spoonful of broth. I was right. The soup is dish-water. I move on to the brownie. Chocolate is always edible.

“I’ll be back with Dr. Kwon in a few minutes,” she says.

Okay. Can you abracadabra me a glass of milk when you do?



AN ASIAN MAN IN A white lab coat is standing at the foot of my bed holding a clipboard, clicking and unclicking his ballpoint pen as he peruses the pages of what I assume is my medical chart. His face is hairless, smooth, gorgeous. His face could be eighteen. But I’m guessing this is Dr. Kwon, my doctor, in which case he’d better have age-defying genetics and be at least thirty.

“Sarah, good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

Anxious, tired, scared.

“Good.”

He clicks his pen and writes something down. Oh, I’m being interviewed. I’d better concentrate. Whatever he’s testing me on, I want to get an A. I want to go home. I want to get back to work.

“How would you say I’m doing?” I ask.

“Good. Things look pretty good considering. You came in pretty banged up. You had a depressed skull fracture and some bleeding on your brain. We had to go in and drain it. We got it all, but with the bleed and the inflammation, you sustained some damage. Your scan shows you’ve lost some real estate. But you’re lucky the insult was on the right and not the left, or you probably wouldn’t be talking to me right now.”

I think his answer started with “good,” but I’m having a hard time hearing any semblance of “good” in any of the words he uttered after that, even as I play it back. “Brain damage.” That sounds like the opposite of “good” to me. I think he also said “Lucky.” I feel dizzy.

“Can you get my husband? I want him to hear this with me.”

“I’m right here,” says Bob.

I turn to see him, but he’s not there. The only people in the room are me and the handsome Dr. Kwon.

“Why are you looking at the chair? I’m over here,” says Bob.

“Bob? I can’t find you.”

“Stand on the other side of me,” says Dr. Kwon.

“There you are!” I say, like we’re playing a game of peek-a-boo.

Weird that I couldn’t see him a second ago. Maybe my vision was affected by the accident. Maybe he was standing too far back. Dr. Kwon adjusts my bed so that I’m sitting upright.

“Sarah, focus on my nose and tell me when you see my finger.”

He’s holding his index finger up near my ear.

“I see it.”

“How about now?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“No.”

“How about now?”

“No.”

“Is she blind?” asks Bob.

Of course I’m not blind. What kind of crazy question is that? Dr. Kwon flashes a light into my eyes. I study his black coffee eyes as he studies something about mine.

“Follow my light. Good. No, the areas of her brain responsible for vision weren’t damaged, and her eyes look fine.”

He pulls out a sheet of paper from his clipboard, places it on my tray table, wheels the table in front of me, and hands me a pen. Uppercase and lowercase letters are scattered across the page.

“Sarah, can you circle all the A’s for me?”

I do this.

“Are you sure you’ve found them all?” he asks.

I check my work.

“Yes.”

He pulls out another sheet.

“Can you draw a vertical line through the middle of each of these horizontal lines?”

I divide the nine lines in half. I look up, ready to ace the next puzzle.

“All done? Okay, let’s move this tray out of the way. Can you hold both arms straight out for me, palms up?”

I do this.

“Are you holding both arms out?”

“Yes.”

“Is she paralyzed?” asks Bob.

Again, what kind of nonsensical question is that to ask? Did he not just see me move? Dr. Kwon taps my arm and leg with a small rubber hammer.

“No, she’s got some weakness on the left, but that should come back with time and rehab. She has Left Neglect. It’s a pretty common condition for patients who’ve suffered damage to the right-hemisphere, usually from a hemorrhage or stroke. Her brain isn’t paying attention to anything on her left. ‘Left’ doesn’t exist to her.”

“What do you mean, ‘it doesn’t exist’?” asks Bob.

“Exactly that. It’s not there to her. She won’t notice you if you’re standing to her left, she won’t touch the food on the left side of her plate, and she might not even believe that her left arm and leg belong to her.”

“Because ‘left’ doesn’t exist to her?” asks Bob.

“Right,” says Dr. Kwon. “I mean, yes.”

“Will it come back?” asks Bob.

“It might, it might not. With some patients, we see symptoms resolve over the first few weeks as inflammation goes down, and the brain heals. But with others, it persists, and the best you can do is learn to live with it.”

“With no left,” says Bob.

“Yes.”

“She doesn’t seem to notice that it’s missing,” says Bob.

“Yes, that’s true for most patients in the acute phase immediately following the injury. She’s mostly unaware of her unawareness. She’s not aware that the left side of everything is missing. To her, it’s all there, and everything is normal.”

I may be unaware of some unawareness, but Dr. Kwon and Bob seem unaware that I’m still here.

“Do you know you have a left hand?” Bob asks me.

“Of course I know I have a left hand,” I say, embarrassed that he keeps asking these ridiculous questions.

But then I consider this ridiculous question. Where is my left hand? I have no idea. Oh my God, where is my left hand? How about my left foot? That’s also missing. I wiggle my right toes. I try to send the same message to my left foot, but my brain returns it to sender. Sorry, no such address.

“Bob, I know I have a left hand, but I have no idea where it is.”