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Wasn’t he a brilliant man?
"I know. I was here the whole time."
I knew I had pissed him off. God, I was two stupid remarks away from suing the hospital.
"Mister - I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name - I think I know what I'm doing. I've been practicing medicine for thirty years," the buffoon replied.
I looked at Rita, and her eyes were watching us. I expected to see embarrassment or maybe some fear, but the only thing on her face was annoyance. I lifted the corner of my mouth to let her know I had it under control.
"Well, Doctor Johansen, James Sullivan is my name, and I'm telling you that my wife wasn’t properly tested or diagnosed."
Rita and I both heard the sound of his mouth opening, shutting and then opening again.
"Sullivan… like in surgeon, James Sullivan? From Chicago General? The man who just gave that speech for the National Surgery Convention?"
"Mhm, neurosurgeon, actually. She doesn't have short term memory loss. She has disruptive memory loss, which means she only..."
"Forgets parts of her memory, I know. Doctor Sullivan, we will take your wife up for an advanced set of tests right now…"
"No need, discharge her."
My words shocked both of the people in the room.
"Sir, didn't you say...?"
"Unlike you, I gave her a proper consult. She has no signs of bleeding, and her reflexes are good. I'm taking her home, and she'll have a CT in Chicago. I would like to take her home. Now."
Who said that? I wanted to bring her in... into my home?
I didn’t know what was happening to me, but maybe we both should have a head CT back in Chicago.
We took the first flight out. We! We, as in together. Was I kidnapping this woman? At least I was doing it in style. Before dropping like a stone in the middle of a Boston street, Rita was running around in sneakers, jeans, a wool sweater and had no jacket on. It was winter, for crying out loud. My blood froze just thinking about it. The first thing I did after demanding her discharge was to get into the first clothing store we could find to buy her some boots and a coat. Luckily, a Hermes showroom was just a few blocks away, so I found her something nice.
"How do you feel?" I asked and offered her my glass of water. I took my seatbelt off to be able to turn and get a good look at her. The bruise on her right temple looked good; it was healing.
"Good, really. When are we going to talk about what's going on, James?"
Did she remember?
"A-about what...Honey?"
"Me not remembering my husband, my memories. It's so weird, you know? I know things, but they just don't fall into place."
I found it in myself to look at her with compassion. I could understand the confusion she was going through. I'd seen it in patients before.
"Let's start with what you do remember."
She let her head fall back on the seat and closed her eyes. I could see frustration in her features, like she was battling with her own mind.
"I know I'm Cuban, born Rita Cortez, now Sullivan."
Excuse me?
"You remember that?"
"No, but you told me."
What she heard from me was not gonna help.
