XIV
He watched as Nick fiddled with the dials for the air conditioning, trying to make him feel more comfortable. It didn't seem to matter how high Nick turned up the A/C; he still felt as though there wasn't enough air, or that it wasn't moving. He felt trapped in the vehicle, fighting for breaths, needing an escape. He tried to ignore Nick's monologue, letting his mind wander to other things and struggling to block out Nick's voice. Why had Catherine's meeting ran so long? Why couldn't she have trusted him to get himself to his doctor's appointment? He turned his head quickly and looked out the window, focusing on the passing streets rather than on Nick. Taking a deep breath, he counted the seconds it took to exhale.
The traffic was surprisingly light and the ride passed mercifully quicker than it normally would, though it made him quite early for his appointment. It wasn't a moment too soon for Grissom though, who shot out the door and hobbled into the building, Nick following behind. As he approached the check-in counter, he felt Nick arrive behind him. He gave his name, took a seat and watched as Nick pulled out his cell phone.
Nick ran a hand through his hair, checked his watch, spoke a few parting words and hung up the phone. Grissom watched as Nick approached. He eyed the empty chair, wondering if Nick would take a seat. His body rigid, he felt his breath collecting and holding in his chest cavity.
"Sorry, Grissom, I have to get going. Catherine should be here soon."
Grissom nodded and exhaled slowly in relief. It took an effort to form his next words. "Thanks Nick."
"You alright waiting here alone?"
He nodded quickly. "I'll be fine."
Nick looked unconvinced. He wondered if Nick had any idea that he would be more comfortable alone than in Nick's company. Guilt at entertaining such a thought gnawed at him.
He felt Nick's eyes on him, examining him. "Okay," Nick let out slowly. He turned to leave, but looked back. "You sure? I might be able to wait for Catherine to show."
"Go, Nick."
After Nick left, Grissom stood, looking around for a washroom to use. He hadn't mentioned anything to Nick, but he'd spent the entirety of their conversation having to go. He would have used that for an excuse to rid himself of the younger man, only he wasn't so sure Nick wouldn't follow him into the washroom to make sure he could go alright. It was absurd and unfounded and totally unlikely, but the thought prickled at his mind. It was irrational, but after the way Nick had been watching him… Besides, he wasn't sure what Catherine had told Nick when she asked Nick to pick him up. She could have told him anything. She could have told him what had happened with Greg and Mats, and Nick, ever dependable Nick, might have felt he needed to accompany him into that washroom to make sure he didn't suffer any other ludicrous breakdowns.
Finding the public washroom, Grissom closed the door to the large room and placed his hand on the bar for the people in wheelchairs. His head down, he tried to allow his last humiliating thoughts to pass before relieving himself. He certainly didn't want to think of Nick in that room with him as he went. Improbable as the scenario was, it still played on his irrational mind. Sighing, he wondered when he'd become so illogical.
He finished up, managing to relieve himself in between disturbing images of Nick. Well, at least he knew that if he ever really had to go at night and didn't want to get out of bed, he could summon up those images and likely cure himself of the need. No, he thought, it wouldn't work. His bladder would still be full, nocturia may turn into incontinence and he would surely give himself a new bout of nightmares.
From the washroom, he moved to the admission desk and set about changing his emergency contact to Catherine. He hadn't wanted to do it with Nick around, worried about a pitying glance from Nick, or some other glance, or a decision from Nick to stick around and keep him company. Besides, he had a feeling that Nick knowing he hadn't yet changed it from Sara would open up a new sting, though for whom, he was not sure.
Sitting back down in an empty seat, he thumbed through a magazine for women, bypassing the travel, sports and automotive magazines also lying about. Catherine arrived at about his second article in. He glanced up as she tipped the magazine down and read the article's caption.
"Beauty beyond 50? Interesting choice in reading material, Gil."
He frowned and closed the magazine. It wasn't as though he had really been reading it. He'd been more scanning through it to keep himself occupied. He had chose that magazine because automotive would remind him of watching her in coveralls, checking out the undercarriage of a car, sports would remind him of teaching her about baseball stats, watching ball games together, or watching her smirk as he scoffed at other forms of sport, and travel would remind him of places he'd been with her. Ironically it the woman's magazine seemed the least likely to remind him of her. Still, as he'd scanned the magazine and the title of the article, he hadn't been able to avoid thinking of Sara and how she would have felt about how she looked and felt at fifty. She'd been so close…
If she'd questioned it, he would have told her how beautiful he still found her, how he was still so in awe of her, and it would have been true. He'd watched her past forty, almost with a measure of small relief, as they were finally on the same side of that proverbial hill that had been defined by the life expectancies of their generations, even if it was the side leading down. She hadn't made it very far down the hike though.
"Gil?"
Catherine voice caused him to look up and he realized he'd been caught in a trance, staring at a point beyond her, though he wasn't sure what the point had been. He'd broken the stare though, had snapped out of it, and wondered if it wasn't the only thing she'd wanted him to snap out of. Nobody had said anything, but every so often he could catch a glimpse into certain people waiting for him to snap out of his despair and get on with his life, as though it was something he could just snap out of, as though healing was instant.
"Sorry," he said, shaking his head and glancing around the room. He could feel Catherine's eyes trained on him, but he couldn't meet them. He found himself looking anywhere but.
"Dr. Grissom?"
The woman's voice saved him from having to continue to elude Catherine's glance. He looked up at the young woman. "Yes?"
"Dr. Cochrane will see you now."
He nodded and stood. Catherine grasped his arm. "I'll be right out here."
He turned back to her and nodded again. "Thanks." Turning back, he followed the nurse into the office who had, for the past several years, been his and Sara's physician.
Grissom seated himself in a chair, waiting for Dr. Cochrane to enter. When the gentleman entered, Grissom found himself standing. "Sit back down, Gil."
Obediently, he sat.
"You haven't been in for an appointment in quite awhile."
Grissom shrugged. What was there to say? He had no one to stay healthy for?
"I see you were just admitted to Desert Palms for dehydration."
He nodded.
"They wanted to run a MSE at the hospital, but your colleague, the one who brought you in, convinced them to let you see me and have me perform the Mental-Status Examination instead?"
Grissom nodded again. "That is the gist of it."
"Gil, you know that at your age it is very important to drink plenty of fluids, especially on a hot day."
He felt himself nod again, a short bob of the head.
"The older we get, the more susceptible we are to dehydration and heat stroke, the more adversely it affects us. Dehydration can have serious consequences."
"I know." His words were soft. He glanced down and waited for the doctor to ask him what he was thinking, just as Catherine had done.
"I'm not going to ask what you were thinking."
Grissom glanced up at that.
Dr. Cochrane shrugged. "I'm sure that will come out more clearly during the MSE, and this way, you won't have to try to rationalize anything. In my opinion, behavior shouldn't be subjected to rationalizations. We're rarely honest about our behavior, particularly to ourselves."
"Are you a psychologist now?" The words came out short and caused Dr. Cochrane to glance at him. Two years ago, he might have said something to soothe the outburst over. Two years ago, he wouldn't have said the words at all. He didn't move to take the words back, though. He wanted to rationalize his behavior. He wanted to pretend that the only reason for not having anything to drink that day was so that he wouldn't be making a million humiliating bathroom stops.
"I think I know you well enough to make an assessment on what your instincts would be. You trust me enough to have me run the MSE."
Grissom let out a sigh and nodded.
"I also want to give you an abbreviated physical?" It came out as a question. Dr. Cochrane was asking his permission.
He sighed again and shrugged.
"We'll be taking up enough time with the MSE. We can book a more thorough one for later."
"Alright."
He thought about Catherine in the waiting room and frowned. "I have a colleague waiting. I should let her know what is going on, inform her that I might be awhile."
Dr. Cochrane nodded. "Is she the colleague who brought you into Desert Palms?"
He nodded.
"So she knows the reason for this visit?"
"Yes."
"And you see her as part of your support system?"
He nodded. Catherine had forced her way into being his support system.
"If you'd prefer, I can go over what we'll be doing so that she will have an indication of how long we'll be, with your permission of course. I would only reveal what you would consent to."
Grissom thought about how much information would be needled out of him later. He closed his eyes and sighed. "You can tell her everything."
"I'll ask her in. What is your colleague's name?"
"Catherine Willows."
Grissom watched as Dr. Cochrane exited the office, and then reentered with Catherine in tow. Catherine glanced at him, eyes wide, before taking the seat next to his. Her eyes moved between him and the doctor. "Is there something wrong?"
Dr. Cochrane shook his head. "Not at all, Ms. Willows."
Grissom glanced at the doctor before turning to Catherine. "I wanted you to know that I would be awhile, so you don't have to bother waiting around."
Catherine waved her hand in a dismissing motion. "Stop being ridiculous." She paused and then turned to the doctor. "Why will it be awhile?"
Grissom watched as Dr. Cochrane smiled reassuringly. "When my receptionist told me the Dr. Grissom was coming in and I looked at what the hospital had sent over, I had my receptionist book and extra appointment block."
"Why? Gil was already booked for a longer appointment. Why add the extra slot?"
"While I am only authorized to run an abbreviated Mental-Status Examination, given that I am neither a psychiatrist nor a psychologist, I will be going into more depth than the mini Mental-Status Exam, which I believe is a good measure of cognition, but does not go into enough depth in Dr. Grissom's case. Given that, it will take some time. I'm also going to do an abbreviated physical and I want to run him through the Geriatric Depression Scale…"
"Wait, Geriatric Depression Scale? Geriatric? Grissom isn't that old."
"Ms. Willows, while there is no number we can apply to the term elderly in any concrete terms, given that there are so many factors that affect aging, sixty-five is commonly recognized as a number by which to begin measuring factors that affect the elderly. Depression increases significantly after the age of sixty-five."
"Grissom's depression doesn't have anything to do with his age. It comes from bereavement. He lost his wife. If you had seen them together…"
"Ms. Willows," the doctor cut in gently. "I am well aware of Dr. Grissom's loss. I have seen them together. Age has a way of hindering how we deal with loss. Over time, losses accumulate, people see changes they didn't expect to see, they lose a sense of self, it is all part of aging. Dr. Grissom suffered a great loss, I know, and the Geriatric Depression Scale is the best tool I have for screening his possible depression. It was designed for people over the age of sixty-five and Dr. Grissom is nearing sixty-six. Unfortunately for our fragile egos, I am not qualified to run the Hamilton Test."
Grissom listened to the words float between the two of them with his eyes closed. It was like he was no longer in the room, or had no stake in the conversation. It was between the two of them. He was a ghost. Catherine, the ever staunch defender had taken his place, as though he was incapable of defending himself against the ugly truths Dr. Cochrane was bringing up. Not that he would have defended himself. He was old, despite what Catherine wanted to believe. It gave him a sort of smug feeling for the doctor to confirm what he'd been telling Catherine. The confirmation also stung.
He kept his eyes closed and let their words wash right through him. It didn't matter what they said. It had been his choice to let her in, to allow the doctor to let her in.
"Alright." Catherine's voice was soft, conceding.
"It is my best option. We both want to use whatever tool we can to help him, isn't that right?"
Catherine said nothing for a long moment. Grissom could imagine her nodding. "It's like he's disappearing," she whispered.
Disappearing. He felt it too, only he knew he wasn't. He was still there, sort of. He still held on to all the knowledge he'd accumulated, he was still at home with bugs, still able to look at and conceive of beauty, still full of so much love for Sara. None of that had disappeared. It had been buried beneath everything else that had accumulated, sorrow, despair, guilt, regret, anger. Was he still there, or had too much of him become buried?
"Gil?" His head snapped up and he realized he'd missed out on what they'd closed out in saying. He looked at the doctor and waited.
"You can head over to the exam room right next door and we can get started."
He nodded and stood, wincing as a slight pain shot through his hip. Ignoring the looks from both Catherine and Dr. Cochrane, he marched past them, out the door and into another.
Dr. Cochrane came in behind him and sat across from him, a notepad in his hand. "I see you were hobbling a bit coming in here. Something the matter?"
There was a moment where he felt the defensive instinct to say no. Instead, he sighed. "My hip has been sore the past couple of days."
"Did you hurt it passing out the other day?"
He shook his head. The truth was far more humiliating, but he revealed it anyways. "I slipped in the shower."
He waited to see what the response would be. Dr. Cochrane merely nodded. "We'll check it out later. I want to get started with the MSE first, alright?"
He sighed. "Alright."
"Gil, can you tell me the date?"
"Four hundred and thirty five days since Sara died," he whispered.
"I'm sorry?"
Fourteen months, nine days. Sara had died on May 20th, the year before. He shook his head. "July 29th."
"And the year?"
"2022."
He could name the day of the week, do the math calculations asked of him, name the country, the city, the neighborhood, the building, the floor, hell even the room number they were in. He could recall the names of objects said to him and do all of the tasks asked of him and it was frustrating to have to go through all of it. It made him irritable.
"Gil, there is nothing wrong with your cognition."
He nodded. That he knew. He'd been doing cognition tests on himself for awhile.
"What did you have for breakfast this morning?"
Grissom's head snapped up. The question had stunned him momentarily and he was relieved to have a good answer for it. He stared at the doctor. "Eggs Florentine."
He watched as Dr. Cochrane raised a brow. "Really?"
"Yes."
"Did you and your colleague go out for breakfast before coming here?"
"No. I made them."
"Really? From scratch?"
"Yes."
The doctor frowned and Grissom returned the frown. "If you don't believe me, you can always ask Catherine to go and look in my fridge. I'm sure she would relish the opportunity."
Dr. Cochrane shook his head. "No, Gil, I believe you. Your appearance suggests you haven't been eating very well though. To be perfectly honest, you look thin and gaunt and far older than your chronological age."
Grissom looked down.
"Are these your regular eating habits?"
Making good meals from scratch? Not anymore. Lately it had been whatever is around that he didn't have to prepare, if he remembered to eat at all. Pop tarts. He closed his eyes and shook his head. "No."
The questions got harder, and as they moved along, the more Grissom wanted to conceal the answers. He felt defensive and frustrated and irritable. Some of the questions made him anxious or uncomfortable. How are you sleeping? How do you feel most days? How did the doctor think he would feel? Old. Alone. Empty, like half of his self was missing. He fought responding to the questions, but after several short remarks, he resigned himself to answering, though he could not look at the doctor as he did so.
"Do your dreams ever feel so real that you are not sure if you are awake or asleep?"
Grissom stopped. His eyes shot to the doctors, and he could feel panic welling up. His pulse began to race and he struggled to breathe. There was a sting in his chest as it began to throb. Bending forward, he tried to focus on his breaths and felt a warm hand on his back. "It's okay, Gil, don't answer that. I think I know the answer."
There was something cool on his chest, and then on his back and he realized the doctor was listening to his rapid heart beat. "You need to calm down, Gil. Try to take slow, even breaths."
He nodded and tried to think of something else. Something good. Sara. Sara up north, picking huckleberries in the bush, having joined him on a trip to a somewhat remote part of southern British Columbia in Canada, where he'd gone to study the mountain pine beetle. Sara's delighted smile in discovering the slopes of the mountainous region were littered with huckleberries, the bushes stretching for miles. Her sparkling eyes. Her wide grin. Her scent mingling with the fresh mountain air. Her fingers painted blue and purple from picking the berries. Her mouth tasting of the sweetness of the fruit. The stains she'd put on his shirt as she'd grasped his waist to draw his body to hers.
His breathing slowed until he felt he wasn't fighting to take air in. He thought back to another time, before they got together, before he thought he could take the risk. He'd always feared what would become of him if he lost her. He'd feared what would happen if he allowed himself to be with her. He'd almost known what would happen, how it would obliterate them, one of them, or the other, or both. Their mutual destruction. She'd escaped it. He was the only one destroyed.
"Gil?"
He looked up to Dr. Cochrane, his eyebrows raised.
"I think I've asked enough questions. I'm going to begin the physical now."
He nodded, relieved. It would be humiliating to have someone look over the body he no longer recognized as his own, liver spots, loose skin and all, but it was a welcome reprieve from the questions. Besides, he still had to run through the Geriatric Depression Scale questionnaire.
The appointment was exhausting. By the time he got to the questionnaire, he was so tired, he only wanted to crawl into bed and keep the company of his dreams. The yes and no questions made him weary and he knew answering each one only led to his being placed in the severely depressed category. He handed back the questionnaire.
"Gil, you need to seek some kind of help. Your health is suffering because of your depression. The changes over the past year and a half since your last check up are enough to startle anyone. Your blood pressure is low. Your heart rate is irregular. You've been afflicted with a serious illness and you need help." Dr. Cochrane paused and looked at him. "I'm not going to put you on anything, because anti-depressants at your age can have serious consequences. You are more vulnerable to side effects, particularly with SSRIs. Now, if I prescribe something for your blood pressure, or for your heart, that in turn can exacerbate your depression. The best thing you can do is take better care of yourself. Eat properly, drink plenty of fluids, get some exercise, talk to somebody, join a support group or gather a support system around yourself, go do something you like doing. You should be able to turn your health and mood problems around. If not, we'll have to consider other options."
Grissom nodded in acknowledgement. He knew what he had to do. Whether or not he chose to do those things was another matter. At the moment, he just wanted to leave, go home, put the emotionally exhausting afternoon behind him.
"Make sure you schedule a follow-up on your way out, Gil. I will be checking with my receptionist to ensure you've done so."