Pascal's Wager by Nancy Rue Page B

Fenwick at Stanford Hospital—re: Your Mother.
    I took the rest of the turns at a near crawl as I studied it. It couldn’t be an emergency or they’d have called on my cell phone.I’d given the number to that second impertinent little resident. Of course, chances were he’d lost it.
    When I got to my office, a dig through my bag revealed that I’d left the cell phone in my apartment. I went for the stairs again and climbed to the grad student lounge on the second floor. It was the only phone we had access to, though with everybody packing wireless it was always available.
    I tapped the pink slip against the window as I waited endlessly for Dr. Fenwick to come to the phone. Who the heck was that, anyway? I’d talked to so many doctors the day before, I was surprised I remembered my own name. I stopped tapping and made a concerted effort to pull myself in. It was the crossover from mother-world into math-world that was stressing me out, and that was going to be my downfall if I didn’t nip it in the bud.
    â€œThis is Dr. Fenwick,” a deep voice said into the phone.
    â€œJill McGavock returning your call,” I said. “Regarding Elizabeth McGavock, my mother.”
    â€œI know your mother well. We did some work together at UC San Francisco years ago.”
    I impatiently pulled the clip out of my hair and shook it out as I waited for him to cut the chitchat.
    â€œWe were able to schedule a psych consult last night,” he said. “The psychiatrist on call was Dr.—”
    â€œWhat did he say?”
    â€œHe was able to get your mother to talk—minimally—enough to conclude that this is not a psychiatric problem.”
    â€œSo it’s not depression, stress, schizophrenia, mid-life crisis.”
    â€œRight. Obviously those aren’t things we can run blood tests for, but all the indicators rule those out.”
    â€œSo she hasn’t gone around the bend. What’s next?”
    â€œAs her primary care physician, I’d like to call in a neurologist and have some tests done.”
    â€œFor?”
    â€œA number of possibilities.”
    â€œName them,” I said.
    â€œI don’t want to scare you.”
    â€œI don’t scare. What are you looking for?”
    â€œWe’ll want to rule out the possibility of a tumor. Then we’ll look for evidence of brain disease, which can’t be diagnosed with certainty, but we’ll look for indicators and match those with her behaviors.”
    â€œConstellation of findings,” I said. I didn’t want him to think he was dealing with an imbecile.
    â€œCorrect,” he said. I heard him chuckle. “You are your mother’s daughter. You’re not in med school, are you?”
    â€œNo. So let me be clear on this—you’re looking for a tumor, brain diseases—dementias?”
    â€œWe’ll consider that, but again, let’s not jump to any conclusions.”
    Jump? Pal, the conclusions are standing there waiting to slap us in the face
.
    â€œHow soon can they run the tests?” I said.
    â€œSince she’s already here, and because she’s on staff, I think we can expedite the process somewhat. Say, results by day after tomorrow?”
    Forty-eight hours. Could I handle that?
    Of course I could handle it. Why shouldn’t I be able to? Where the heck had that question come from?
    â€œFine,” I said. “Should I call you or—”
    â€œI’ll catch up to you at the hospital. I’m sure you’ll be there spending time with your mom.”
    â€œHow long is she going to be in there, anyway?” I asked.
    â€œYou’re looking at a good four or five days—and that of course is contingent on whatever we find in the neuro workup.”
    I hung up feeling something even my mother had never been able to make me feel: that my life was somehow not completely my own anymore.

SIX
    T he next forty-eight hours