Head Case by Cole Cohen Page A

prescribe medication, suggests a prescription for Wellbutrin and slides a photocopied chapter from Driven to Distraction across her desk to me. (My mother has owned a copy of this classic ADD/ADHD tome since my ADD phase in the early 1990s.) This is it? A prescription for antidepressants and a photocopied chapter from a book on ADD are my “tools for coping”?
    I show her a printout of the MRI; she stares at the photo and then at me, saying nothing. No one had given the neuropsychologist my MRI results. This is like the first faux pas on a blind date. Starting with the first signs of abnormality during my testing with Dr. Volt and his resident, and continuing to my quickly scheduled battery of tests and X-rays and, then, all the time that Dr. Volt dedicated to helping me and my family understand my “condition,” I had been wooed by the medical establishment. I have the email addresses and phone numbers of everyone who’s treated me; I’ve been encouraged to stay in touch. There is that moment when you can look back at a failed romantic relationship and spot the first sign of trouble. Excuses that sounded valid at the time seem so obviously preposterous when viewed through the lens of the aftermath. I look back at this moment, when I debriefed my new neuropsychologist on my condition and we huddled together over a printout of the email attachment that contained my MRI, and think now that this was where it all began. I should have known that the medical industry and I were at best a bittersweet match. I don’t want coping strategies; I want strengthening exercises. I want a plan, goals, strategies, charted progress. I want to get better.
    *   *   *
    â€œThis is Chris Smith, calling from Dr. Volt’s office. I have the number for a guide dog for you.” The number he gives me is for Guide Dogs for the Blind. “Call them up—we should be able to get the ball rolling on this guide-dog situation. And here’s my number—please give me a call if you run into any speed bumps.”
    â€œI will—thank you so much for getting in touch with me!”
    And then he ends with the words I’ve been waiting so long to hear: “I will be an advocate for your disability needs.”
    I call the local number Chris Smith left me, and a woman connects me to the California office to start my intake.
    â€œGuide Dogs for the Blind,” the woman on the line says flatly.
    â€œHi. I’m inquiring about a guide dog. I’m not sure where to begin. I was referred by my neurologist; I’m fully sighted, but I have a neurological … condition. I have a difficult time judging how far and fast objects are moving in space. It’s a sort of spatial blindness, I guess.”
    â€œSo, I’m sorry—you are fully sighted?”
    â€œYes. I was hoping that a dog would help me with crossing the street or getting through a crowd, since I have a difficult time with moving objects.”
    â€œWell. That’s not exactly how it works. First of all, you have to be legally blind to receive a dog from us. Second of all, even if we could give you a dog, it wouldn’t do what you want it to. That’s not how it works. The guide dog doesn’t tell a blind person when to cross the street. The handler listens to traffic, makes a judgment, and then gives the sign when to cross.”
    â€œOh. I see.”
    â€œSo I’m afraid we can’t help you with a dog.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œBut how about a cane?” she says.
    â€œA cane?”
    â€œYes, you know, a cane.”
    â€œBut—OK—correct me if I’m wrong here. How exactly does a cane work?”
    â€œWell, it would detect an object on the street. Like litter, or the curb, or a person.”
    â€œBut I am fully sighted.”
    â€œRight.”
    I try a new tack.
    â€œSo … OK. It sounds like a cane is for trouble with immobile