Slow Dancing with a Stranger by Meryl Comer Read Free Book Online

be diagnosed without fanfare and treated elsewhere?
    I remember the moment when I first heard the words I had been chasing for the past two and a half years. I was leaning against a filing cabinet, directly behind Harvey and halfway out the door of a cramped office, while he sat bewildered across the table from the doctor, whose shoulders now slumped as the bearer of onerous news: “A comparative of brain scans done after his 1985 car accident almost a decade before shows actual shrinkage as well as plaques and tangles in the hippocampus region of the brain. His PET scan offers us a 65 percent certainty that Dr. Gralnick’s condition presents as a form of dementia. It may even be Alzheimer’s. It is atypical in a person of his age, education, and level of physical fitness. Have you ever heard of it?”
    The word Alzheimer’s hung in the air. Harvey said nothing. His mind had already become a sieve in such technical conversations. I had never heard of the disease, and no doctor had ever mentioned it. Could he be mistaken? What were our options? How fast does the disease progress? What’s in store for us? Wouldn’t it be prudent to get a second opinion, since my husband presents differently each time he is seen and there is no medical consensus?
    Just then the doctor’s pager went off, and he stood apologetically to dismiss us, saying there was an emergency and he was on call. But before he left, his final words set me on the next course of action: “Unfortunately, if it is Alzheimer’s, there is no cure for this fatal neurodegenerative illness—and only four drugs available to treat symptoms. Under regulations I am required to report my findings, though not definitive, immediately to his agency head at the NIH.”
    The doctor disappeared into a nearby doctors-only elevator. Harvey and I were left behind to deal with the consequences and figure out what to do next. Harvey’s face was a blank. It wasn’t even clear he had heard or understood the doctor’s diagnosis. He looked up at me and said, “Isn’t it time for lunch?”
    I knew I had to move fast. His X-rays were still on the desk as was the doctor’s report. I slipped both sets of medical records into my bag and left a brief note on the doctor’s desk. “Will return tomorrow. Need to copy for our records and second opinion.”
    At work, the question about what to do about Harvey had already been set in motion. No one was willing to wait for a formal diagnosis. The news about Harvey’s breakdown in London quickly got back to his colleagues at the NIH. People were shocked and worried. By then, everyone understood that, whatever Harvey had, it was progressing and unlikely to get any better. This was the beginning of the end of his career, and I knew I had to somehow find a way for him to leave and preserve his legacy. I drove him to work while I searched for a solution, but things took on a momentum of their own.
    One day, a prominent cancer researcher who had trained with Harvey came to the NIH to speak with a group of young fellows. He asked during his visit to see Harvey. One of the doctors there warned the visitor that he might find Harvey changed, that he was struggling with a medical issue. When Harvey’s colleague saw him, Harvey seemed lucid. “They told me you have Alzheimer’s,” said the doctor. His colleague’s words came as a total surprise. There had yet been no official diagnosis of his medical problem. Harvey came home angry, upset, and frightened. I complained to human resources that no one should be discussing Harvey’s medical issues or making their own diagnoses.
    Then I got a devastating phone call. Several women in Harvey’s lab had filed sexual harassment claims against him, saying he used inappropriate language and they felt uncomfortable working with him. I went in with our lawyer and Harvey to discuss what to do next. I felt angry and