I laughed—O, who knows nothing about Facebook or Instagram. “No, I think that was a definite case of nurture over nature.”
We found a broad, dry sidewalk, empty of people, so much so that O felt comfortable letting go of my arm and walking on his own. He took my arm again at Bleecker. I steered him to the left.
“Now, now, this looks familiar, but I have no idea where we are,” O said. (How many times have I heard that—O and his topographical agnosia, the geographic equivalent to his prosopagnosia.) It occurred to me that now I probably knew the Village better than he did, which is saying something since I’ve only been here five years. But I’ve walked a lot. I may not know the names of the streets, but I know how to get from here to there. And I recognize everyone.
We took a right onto Christopher. Soon we were pushing open the door to McNulty’s, one of my favorite places in the world. I still remember when he introduced me to McNulty’s. It was wonderfully warm inside, and crowded (the crowd helping to heat the place). As we waited, a tall woman said to Oliver, “I like your cane!”
He thanked her and held it up for her to admire the handle, which was completely “enrobed” (O’s word) in different colored rubber bands.
“How long did it take you to collect all those?” she asked.
“About ten minutes,” he said.
“I did not expect you to say that!” she said, laughing.
“I have a vast collection,” he said with modest pride.
O demonstrated how the rubber bands keep the cane from falling when propped against something: “A physical therapist taught me that!”
We bought three pounds of coffee—as well as a box of tea sacks, two tea bricks, which he’ll give as gifts to Jonathan and to Nick’s family, and some coffee-flavored candies—O is going to his nephew’s in D.C. for Christmas. It came to $125—not a small amount of money to spend in a coffee shop. O is not an extravagant man, by any means, except for on those rare instances when he is.
We said happy holidays and thank you to all the gentlemen at McNulty’s. We walked up Hudson, like other streets empty of people because of the bitter cold. O talked easily and nonstop, making his signature “pronouncements,” as I think of them. For instance: suddenly saying, “I find I am very interested in automatism.”
I elbowed him: “Only Oliver Sacks would say that!” He started laughing. “Well, why not? It’s very interesting. It’s the signal characteristic of homeostasis!”
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12-25-14:
Spoke to O, who is in D.C.—“Merry Christmas,” and so on—he sounded tired and said he was not feeling well. Back home tomorrow. Hope he’s okay. We leave for a trip in ten days.
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1-12-15:
Got back last night from St. Croix—a birthday trip. I turned fifty-four (equivalent to the atomic number for xenon, so O gave me four xenon flashlights). It was warm there, sunny, I did some scuba diving and we swam every day, which was nice, yet I’m relieved to be home. O did not feel well much of the time—nauseated, tired, slept a lot. We almost cancelled the trip last minute. Two nights before we left, he told me had “dark urine.” I was skeptical—he’s hypochondriacal even on good days, as he is the first to admit. But I could see he was worried, talked him into peeing into a clear glass so I could check, and was startled when he brought it into the kitchen; his urine was the color of Coca-Cola. It seemed to clear up some while we were in St. Croix. Even so, he had made a doctor’s appointment before leaving for the trip.
Later:
O just returned from his GP, who thinks he has some kind of gallbladder inflammation, maybe gallstones. Did an ultrasound, but they’re running more tests.
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1-15-15:
O’s doctor phoned: “peculiar findings,” re: CAT scan yesterday. So: Am taking him to see a radiologist at Sloan-Kettering. They want to see him this afternoon.
BUT …