Entering the Twilight Zone

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Monday I had a series of tests that would, hopefully, provide some clues as to 'what ails me'. There was one set of tests that simply amazed me. I had taken a test like that many years ago and finished the whole page with time to spare, but this time was so very, very different. There was a short code for a basic set of numbers, essentially 0 through 9, or 1 through 9, I forget which but a small set nonetheless. When time ran out, I think I was starting either the third or fourth row, I only had three of those codes memorized.

There was my Charlie Brown moment on another test. A series of words, things, was given, and then given, and given, and somewhere an exasperated "one more time" was given for a second time. It was a simple memory thing that making a chain would solve. I remember it started with Truck, then Spinach, then Giraffe, and the chain, the pictures, the pegs, the . . . every trick I tried, was not coming to me. I had little snippets of sets of things that seemed to be somewhat in order relative to other snippets of things. Since the normal sequencing efforts failed, I tried bunching things that were somewhat alike. That got a curious smile and I realized shortly later why when she asked me questions like: name just the animals, name just the vegetables, name just the modes of transportation. I got the feeling like the several lists had different numbers of items, but an increasing number of more solidly remembered things. Then there were a couple of things that I fairly often guessed were there but wasn't really sure. So then I hear, "Now we have a different list . . ." at which moment my heart sank and I thought, "I'm doomed." When I was asked to identify from a list of names which were on the first list--that was simple, those names were familiar. The only thing I remember of the second list was that violin was an early item.

Angela was administering the tests (and if her name wasn't that then it is the label I am giving her for this conversation) and said that she was glad that I tried hard because it would make for better results. At the beginning of the testing she said I was not to feel guilt, shame, or embarrassment if my results did not match my expectations. I did not feel guilt, shame, or embarrassment--I was shocked, astounded, and befuddled at how poorly I performed. I don't know what that test tells others, but my personal self-image based on what I used to be. I don't know if Donna caught it, but there was a time when walking back to the car that I was quietly humming "The Old Grey Mare (ain't what she used to be)" in hopes that no one would strike up the band for a rousing "If I only had a brain".

After that, I had the feeling my head were stuffed with cotton and when I got home I went straight to bed. Donna lay next to me. It seemed as if she were wanting me to cuddle, or more, but nothing was stirring. I rolled over and she suggested that I put my CPAP machine to work. It was like one of those 'passed out' moments of sleep where I closed my eyes and then opened them immediately later but it was much later, two hours later. I took care of my bathroom need and laid back down, without the CPAP. I closed my eyes and they popped open so quickly that I just knew no time had passed, but the shadows were wrong. It was an hour and a half later still. I have no idea when Donna got up, dressed, and left the room but she did.

Tuesday seemed like a good day. I seem to think that I felt rested and alert. I remember that at some time in the afternoon I felt flummoxed at the realization that I had just written something completely incomprehensible so I stopped to work on another task. I don't remember what it was. I got a text message, which I did not read because it would be James saying he was on his way to take me home. I didn't bother reading it but closed things down right away because I had made him wait the last couple of times he came for me. Walking out of the building, into the brightness of the waning day, I realized that everything, everything, was very blurred. There was a dark car, and the driver had the familiar wrap-around iridescent bug-eyed sunglasses (I don't know why these words are here or where above they belong but this "and turned around" is at the end of the text I am typing). Well, I went to open the door, but it was locked. I tapped on the window by the lock and the driver hit the unlock button. As I started to step into the car it suddenly looked unfamiliar. A young woman spoke and said, "I'm sorry but this is the wrong car." I backed up so fast that I thought I was going to fall down. I apologized profusely, shut the car door, and retreated toward the building entrance. Looking at the text, James said he had to finish something and would be a bit late.

Wednesday, today, started out in great fashion. I was alert but the morning sun's brightness hurt my eyes so I closed them for most of the way to work as Donna drove. She, and I, no longer trust my driving, plus Dr. Jennifer was quite clear that I shouldn't. I didn't go to sleep or even want to. The double kick of Nuvigil and my restarted Advair (for my asthma) got me going just shy of jittery. Arriving at work, however, there was the indication that the day would not be as nice as I hoped. I was dizzy on standing up, which by now is normal. I turned and saw my lunch in the back seat and reached for it--the window was not open. Trying to open the locked door, Donna clicked the button unlocking the doors, but I reached around to unlock the now unlocked door anyway, realizing it just as my hand touched the knob. I got my lunch, said good bye, and tried to get the handicap door push plate to read my key fob.

Inside and to the elevator (I am forbidden from using the stairs but was feeling too tired at the moment to even consider it after a very long short walk from the handicap entrance to the elevators). I leaned against the elevator wall to rest for the long trip up the single floor to where my office is. I was short of breath and knew this was not a good way to start a day.

At my office I began to start the coffee. Standing over the trash can I had to think in order to take the lid off the drip canister and then dump the previous day's grounds into the trash. When I was at the water fountain to rinse and then fill the pitcher (I just typed picture) I started to put it under the fountain with the lid down. The rest was largely normal for the next half-hour.

Going down to chapel, every Wednesday morning, I almost fell atop a woman sitting on the end of the last row as I had balance problems making the corner to the aisle. The school president, Dr. Gary, was speaking, on change. It is inevitable, unavoidable. Necessary. While we were filing out he was directly behind me and I commented, "Encouraged everyone to embrace change and here I am the twig that is about to be pruned." He gave a soft smile (he knows) and a comforting pat on my shoulder.

A little over an hour later came the moment when I knew that I wasn't going to be any good here. I had entered the Twilight Zone. I tried to read where I left off at the previous writing of how my replacement will need to do my job. I got lost in a reference to earlier and when I found it the writing simply was incomprehensible to me.

Plunging ahead, I went back to start the next point in the task. I described paragraph styles and the one needed for formatting the book's Title and Pro, the word isn't coming to me, but the next page, which has the copyright page on its back. I described how the new "brand" scheme dictated that those titles be in all caps but our division management prefers title case. I named and described the pertinent paragraph style and how to place the Title Case text and how if the over-something condition is reset that the default was for all caps and it would change. Then I clicked to make sure of a little detail in my instructions, the exact wording of my instructions precisely matched what the operator would see in the program--it didn't work. I tried again and it didn't work. I looked at the two pages affected with those instructions and they were suddenly different. I glanced over at the paragraph style description I had so meticulously described, and then back at the program--they weren't the same.

I looked at what I had written and it was full of description, specific and technical description, that did not apply to what I was now looking at in the program. I checked that I was in the right parts of the document. This was simply too strange.

I called Donna to take me home, and she did. I had a bit of lunch and then a nap. It was a close my eyes and suddenly 30 minutes later when I opened them. We did some work around the house. She had taken the week off for taxi service to my doctor's appointments and get ready for her parents to come to visit. Kylie will be seven on Friday and it was going to be a good party. I got tired and took another nap. This was not the same. I felt like a ghost exploring sounds in the house through a dark fog even though I realized it was in the middle of the day. I heard a noise and I was staring at the ceiling of my bedroom at a quarter to five. I laid down around 3:30.

As I started this note, I wondered why I chose that title. Then I remembered why I was home and not at work. I couldn't write. Now, almost 8 PM, it is as the song, "all coming back to me now." As often as I used to kick myself over little faults and failures, perhaps this memory loss is a good thing. It isn't "all" coming back and that change is a bit of blessing in disguise.