exercises in pragmatics group. 'I'm Thea Sperelakis.'
'Petros's daughter?'
'One of them, yes.'
'I'm so sorry for what's happened to your father. He was supposed to be my doctor before his accident. Now I have Dr. Hartnett, he's the internist, and Dr. Thibideau, she's my cancer specialist.'
Dr. Carpenter had spent many hours working with Thea on trying to see through spoken words and into the tone and manner in which they were spoken—one of the most difficult tasks for any Aspie. Hayley Long, Thea felt, had said the word cancer with strength and dignity.
'I don't know her well,' Thea said, 'but I have heard that Dr. Thibideau is a wonderful doctor.'
Unfortunately, she was thinking, Thibideau's area of expertise was cancer of the pancreas—an extremely knotty medical problem because by the time symptoms developed, most often pain, the disease was usually far advanced. In all likelihood, the yellowish medication draining into the IV was part of some sort of experimental FDA protocol.
'You want to know what I like the most about her?' Hayley said. 'She actually looks at me when she talks to me, and not at her computer screen—at least not every second. My doctor in Atlanta, Dr. Bibby, is a sweet and caring guy. There was a time when he would actually interact with me when I came to see him, but all of a sudden, things changed. His group practice went to all-electronic records.'
'HIPAA,' Thea said. 'Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act. It spells out the form a doctor's records and office notes must take.'
'That's right. I forgot that you're a doctor, too. Dr. Hartnett told me that all of Dr. Sperelakis's children were doctors.'
'Almost all.'
'Well, needless to say, even with a doctor like Lydia Thibideau, I'm scared out of my wits over all this—especially when the drug I'm getting is so experimental. I chose it over the standard treatment because the survival figures for those drugs are so dismal, and the side effects are so debilitating. I could have gotten both the standard treatment and the new drug, but my husband David and I both felt that was more than I could handle.'
'I'm so sorry you have to go through this, but that's the way these protocols work.'
'I understand. Dr. Hartnett tells me your father is still in a coma. I'm sorry to hear that.'
'His coma may be improving.'
'I hope so. Say, I know it's late—make that early—but if it's like the past few nights, the sleeping pill they gave me isn't going to work, and you seem pretty wide awake. Do you feel like hanging out here for a little while?'
Thea's knee-jerk reaction was to say no and retreat into her concerns about her father. But there was something about this woman— something wise and genuine.
'I suppose I could do that for just a little while,' she said.
THE TWO women talked about Proust and the Brontes. They discussed Asperger syndrome and alternative therapies for cancer. They laughed about men and families. They analyzed locked-in syndrome and what Thea's next move should be and the challenges faced by women operating in the world of high finance. They shared stories of Atlanta and the Congo, of being brought up in privilege and in poverty, of what it was like to have a child die in one's arms, and how much a billion dollars was.
Thea awoke in her chair at five, vaguely remembering nodding off. Hayley Long was wide awake and reading.
'With the Damocles sword of cancer hanging over my head, losing time to sleep doesn't seem like a wise choice,' Hayley said. 'Reading does.'
'So does friendship,' Thea said. 'Thanks for not waking me. I needed the nap.'
She brought two cups of coffee in from the small kitchen down the hall, and they drank largely in silence, each enjoying the connection that had formed between them. Finally, with an uncharacteristically warm embrace, and the promise to come back soon, Thea headed back to the ICU, determined to find a way to probe the secrets locked in her father's brain.
She was also
'Petros's daughter?'
'One of them, yes.'
'I'm so sorry for what's happened to your father. He was supposed to be my doctor before his accident. Now I have Dr. Hartnett, he's the internist, and Dr. Thibideau, she's my cancer specialist.'
Dr. Carpenter had spent many hours working with Thea on trying to see through spoken words and into the tone and manner in which they were spoken—one of the most difficult tasks for any Aspie. Hayley Long, Thea felt, had said the word cancer with strength and dignity.
'I don't know her well,' Thea said, 'but I have heard that Dr. Thibideau is a wonderful doctor.'
Unfortunately, she was thinking, Thibideau's area of expertise was cancer of the pancreas—an extremely knotty medical problem because by the time symptoms developed, most often pain, the disease was usually far advanced. In all likelihood, the yellowish medication draining into the IV was part of some sort of experimental FDA protocol.
'You want to know what I like the most about her?' Hayley said. 'She actually looks at me when she talks to me, and not at her computer screen—at least not every second. My doctor in Atlanta, Dr. Bibby, is a sweet and caring guy. There was a time when he would actually interact with me when I came to see him, but all of a sudden, things changed. His group practice went to all-electronic records.'
'HIPAA,' Thea said. 'Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act. It spells out the form a doctor's records and office notes must take.'
'That's right. I forgot that you're a doctor, too. Dr. Hartnett told me that all of Dr. Sperelakis's children were doctors.'
'Almost all.'
'Well, needless to say, even with a doctor like Lydia Thibideau, I'm scared out of my wits over all this—especially when the drug I'm getting is so experimental. I chose it over the standard treatment because the survival figures for those drugs are so dismal, and the side effects are so debilitating. I could have gotten both the standard treatment and the new drug, but my husband David and I both felt that was more than I could handle.'
'I'm so sorry you have to go through this, but that's the way these protocols work.'
'I understand. Dr. Hartnett tells me your father is still in a coma. I'm sorry to hear that.'
'His coma may be improving.'
'I hope so. Say, I know it's late—make that early—but if it's like the past few nights, the sleeping pill they gave me isn't going to work, and you seem pretty wide awake. Do you feel like hanging out here for a little while?'
Thea's knee-jerk reaction was to say no and retreat into her concerns about her father. But there was something about this woman— something wise and genuine.
'I suppose I could do that for just a little while,' she said.
THE TWO women talked about Proust and the Brontes. They discussed Asperger syndrome and alternative therapies for cancer. They laughed about men and families. They analyzed locked-in syndrome and what Thea's next move should be and the challenges faced by women operating in the world of high finance. They shared stories of Atlanta and the Congo, of being brought up in privilege and in poverty, of what it was like to have a child die in one's arms, and how much a billion dollars was.
Thea awoke in her chair at five, vaguely remembering nodding off. Hayley Long was wide awake and reading.
'With the Damocles sword of cancer hanging over my head, losing time to sleep doesn't seem like a wise choice,' Hayley said. 'Reading does.'
'So does friendship,' Thea said. 'Thanks for not waking me. I needed the nap.'
She brought two cups of coffee in from the small kitchen down the hall, and they drank largely in silence, each enjoying the connection that had formed between them. Finally, with an uncharacteristically warm embrace, and the promise to come back soon, Thea headed back to the ICU, determined to find a way to probe the secrets locked in her father's brain.
She was also
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