Why do I have to go to the doctor? my mother asked.
It’s been awhile since you’ve had a check-up.
Remember when you were little and you bit Dr. Kirschenbaum?
That was an accident.
The way he carried on. The man didn’t like children. He should have been an accountant, not a dentist.
I made an appointment.
An appointment for what?
The doctor.
Why do I have to go to the doctor?
There are 85 billion cells in the human brain that knit together fragments of the past into memories and many tools for diagnosing dementia, including a thorough physical examination, neurological and psychological exams, a review of the patient’s medical history, medications, an EEG, and an MRI.
My mother’s brain was moon white, with steep cracks meandering through it like rivers that had lost their way.
Her cortex has thinned, the doctor told me. There’s been some damage to the smaller blood vessels.
The edges of her brain appeared ruffled, reminding me of flames or fairy tale trees that come to life when no one’s watching.
The middle part of her brain was black. I saw twin lakes. A nose and a frowning mouth. It looked like a dangerous mask I didn’t want her to wear.
Late onset Alzheimer’s, the doctor said.
The word landed like a blow.
There will also be a cognitive evaluation, which tests for visual and spatial skills, helping to guide prognosis and treatment.
Draw a clockface, said the nurse.
A what?
The face of a clock or a wristwatch.
My mother looked at me with alarm. She wasn’t wearing the silver Tourneau watch my father gave her for their 25th anniversary. She claimed the watch had been stolen. Now I wasn’t so sure.
She picked up the blue marker, put it down, handed it to me.
This is ridiculous, Lauren. I’m not a child.
Mrs. Goodman. Sylvia. Are you able to draw a clockface?
The biology of the brain remains among the deepest mysteries in neuroscience.
I’m going to give you four words: Kite – zebra – pen - microwave. Could you say them back to me?
My mother stared at the nurse. She had a fearful, withdrawn expression as if she’d lost something irreplaceable.
I . . . don’t . . . microwave?
Only a few years after symptom onset, neurons in the frontal lobe and cerebral cortex will start to perish – disrupting mood, spatial awareness, face recognition and long-term memory.
What will I do when she doesn’t remember me? I imagined placing her hands on my face, like I was teaching her to read Braille.
Hippocampus is the Greek word for seahorse.
We emerged from the air conditioning of the medical center into an unseasonably hot June afternoon.
My mind was doing handsprings. Care-money-insurance-comfort-sick. Everything had shifted, but the world looked the same.
Let’s go to the beach, my mother said, as we walked to the car.
We have to go home first and get our bathing suits.
The last thing I wanted was to go to the beach and see all the happy people doing happy things.
We don’t need those. Let’s just go. I’ll buy you a Creamsicle.
My favorite ice cream when I was little. I loved the orang-y taste, a little milky, sweet but not overly.
She remembered.
Beth Sherman has had more than 200 stories published in literary journals, including Flash Frog, Fictive Dream, Bending Genres and Smokelong Quarterly. Her work is featured in Best Microfiction 2024 and Best Small Fictions 2025. She’s also a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. She can be reached on social media @bsherm36.
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