Story #120 - Right Off

Right Off

“Is there anything you can do for me, Doctor P?” Robbie Vat's voice cracked at the end of his question. Just out of his teens, he was a good kid – one that Dean Palmor had seen in his office every year in June since Robbie was old enough to crawl. From what he could remember, Robbie had never had any serious medical issues, and looking at his chart confirmed it; up until today, Robbie had been as healthy as his parents.

They were an odd mix; his father was a professional circus clown and part-time comedian, and hands-down one of the funniest men that Palmor had ever met, while Robbie's mother was a high-powered and no-nonsense attorney. Both were of average attractiveness, height and weight, but their dispositions couldn't be more opposite. So far as he knew, they were still together.

“I'm not sure just yet, Robbie – I need to run some more tests. Probably an MRI.” He glanced at the kid's chart again; there really was nothing there to see, and he could just be chasing his tail, but Palmor had a hunch Robbie wouldn't fake something like this. “Tell me,” he went on, trying to sound nonchalant, “how are your parents?”

In younger patients, especially those with strong home lives, the separation of parents could produce serious and far-reaching consequences and physical symptoms, ones that the patient often didn't realize were a result of the emotional trauma they'd suffered.

“Huh?” Robbie said, looking up from the floor. “Fine, I guess. Mom's at work a lot for some big case and dad is on tour in the southern states.”

“So you're not seeing them too much?” Perhaps it was just acute loneliness or something else equally benign; most of Robbie's described symptoms were mental, but he did say he had been experiencing severe nausea and headaches as well.

“What? No.” Robbie seemed surprised. “Oh, I guess you don't know – I moved out a couple of months ago. Living on my own not too far from the house. It's great!” His face brightened for a moment, and then he sagged forward, color draining from his cheeks and hands going to his stomach.

“Robbie!” Palmor moved forward, steadying the younger man in his hands and setting him back up on the bed. “Are you alright?”

“I don't know, Doc!” There was real fear in Robbie's voice, and Palmor's heart went out to him.

“You'll be fine, Robbie,” he said with a confidence that came from long years of lying for the good of his patients, “you'll be fine. Get some rest, make sure to go to the appointments I schedule for you, and then come back and see me next week.”

Robbie nodded, his face still pale. “OK.”

***

“I'm...not really sure how to say this, Robbie.”

“Oh God!” The kid moaned. They were in Palmor's office, a dark-paneled affair that was overflowing with books. Robbie, like all of his patients, knew that serious things happened behind the heavy office door. “I'm going to die, aren't I?”

“No!” His voice was firm. “You're not, actually. You just have a choice to make.”

“A choice?” Robbie brought his head up out of his hands, and wiped away a tear that had formed at the corner of his eye. The kid had always been a study in contrasts: logical and sensible one minute, and bubbling over with laughter the next. He had never seemed moody, just – odd.

And now Parmor knew why.

“Your brain has a communication problem, Robbie – its halves don't want to talk to each other.”

“Like, my left and right brain, you mean?”

“Exactly.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “They do different things, but are supposed to speak to each other about how to do them – each one acts as a control for the other. Your halves have stopped talking altogether. Neither one is in control, and yet both are, and your symptoms are as a result of that.”

Robbie nodded. “OK. So now what?”

“Now, you choose – I'm going to have to deaden one, make it submit to the other, and you've got to pick which one.”

“What? I can't do that! What am I going to lose?” Robbie's voice was panicked.

“Overall, not much. You'll keep all of your physical abilities and memories – you won't suddenly become mute or deaf, and you'll still know who everyone around you is. But,” he looked across the desk and directly into Robbie's eyes, “you'll lose either a significant chunk of emotion or reasoning power. I'm sorry, but that's the bottom line.”

***

“How do you feel, Robbie?”

“Great!” Came the reply. “Just great – I've never been this happy, I don't think.”

No surprise there.

“Everything seems to have worked exactly as it should. Your reasoning center is dampened significantly, but not entirely gone, and your emotional brain is fully in control. Your symptoms should stop.”

“Super! Can I go now? I want to go see a movie or talk to some friends.” Robbie's eyes were bright, and he was gesturing rapidly.

“Sure,” Palmor said slowly, “but make sure you take the pills I gave you, and you need to contact your HMO. That surgery won't be entirely covered – your parents need to know more about this, too.”

Robbie waved him off. “Yeah, pills, whatever. I'm sure it'll be fine. God, I feel great!”

It's an old question, Parmor thought as Robbie left the office – reason or happiness? Did not knowing somehow make it all better?

Robbie had made his choice, and seemed better for it, but along with that came a loss of critical thought, a loss of pure brain power. Perhaps such things were overrated; or maybe the truly happy were also partially deranged. He chuckled. It made a certain amount of sense.

- D