Текст книги "Still Alice"

Автор книги: Lisa Genova

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

 

The well-being of a neuron depends on its ability to communicate with other neurons. Studies have shown that electrical and chemical stimulation from both a neuron’s inputs and its targets support vital cellular processes. Neurons unable to connect effectively with other neurons atrophy. Useless, an abandoned neuron will die.

SEPTEMBER 2004

Although it was officially the beginning of fall semester at Harvard, the weather was steadfastly adhering to the rules according to the Roman calendar. It was a sticky eighty degrees that summer morning in September as Alice began her commute to Harvard Yard. In the days just before and following matriculation each year, it always amused her to see the first-year students who weren’t from New England. Fall in Cambridge evoked images of vibrant leaves, apple picking, football games, and wool sweaters with scarves. While it wouldn’t be unusual to wake up on a late September morning in Cambridge to find frost on the pumpkin, the days, especially in early September, were still filled with the sounds of window air conditioners tirelessly groaning and fevered, pathologically optimistic discussions about the Red Sox. Yet each year there they were, these newly transplanted students, moving with the uncertainty of unseasoned tourists along the sidewalks of Harvard Square, always burdened by too many layers of wool and fleece and an excess of shopping bags from the Harvard Coop packed with all the necessary desk gear and sweatshirts bearing the HARVARD brand. The poor sweaty things.

Even in her sleeveless white cotton T-shirt and ankle-length black rayon skirt, Alice felt uncomfortably damp by the time she reached Eric Wellman’s office. Directly above hers, his was the same size, with the same furniture and the same view of the Charles River and Boston, but somehow his seemed more impressive and imposing. She always felt like a student whenever she was in his office, and that feeling hovered especially present today, as she’d been called in by him “to talk for a minute.”

“How was your summer?” asked Eric.

“Very relaxing. How was yours?”

“Good, it went by too fast. We all missed seeing you at the conference in June.”

“I know, I missed being there.”

“Well, Alice, I wanted to talk with you about your course evaluations from last semester before classes begin.”

“Oh, I haven’t even had a chance to look at them yet.”

An elastic-bound stack of evaluations from her motivation and emotion course sat somewhere in her office, unopened. Harvard’s student evaluation responses were entirely anonymous and seen only by the instructor of the course and the chair of the department. In the past, she’d read them purely as a vanity check. She knew she was a great teacher, and her students’ evaluations had always nodded in unwavering agreement. But Eric had never asked her to review them with him. She feared, for the very first time in her career, that she wouldn’t like the image of herself she saw reflected in them.

“Here, take a few minutes and look them over now.”

He handed her his copy of the stack with the summary page on top.

On a scale from one, disagree strongly, to five, agree strongly: The instructor held students to a high standard of performance.

All fours and fives.

Class meetings enhanced an understanding of the material.

Fours, threes, and twos.

The instructor helped me to understand difficult concepts and complex ideas.

Again, fours, threes, and twos.

The instructor encouraged questions and the consideration of differing viewpoints.

Two students gave her ones.

On a one-to-five scale from poor to excellent, give an overall evaluation of the instructor.

Mostly threes. If she remembered correctly, she’d never received lower than a four in this category.

The entire summary page was splattered with threes, twos, and ones. She didn’t try to convince herself that it represented anything but the accurate and thoughtful judgment of her students, without malice. Her teaching performance had outwardly suffered more than she’d been aware of. Still, she’d be willing to bet anything that she was far from the worst-rated teacher in the department. She might be sinking fast, but she was nowhere near the bottom of the barrel.

She looked up at Eric, ready to face the music, maybe not her favorite tune but probably not wholly unpleasant.

“If I hadn’t seen your name on that summary, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. It’s decent, not what I’ve ever seen attached to you, but not horrible. It’s the written comments that are particularly worrisome, and I thought we should talk.”

Alice hadn’t looked beyond the summary page. He referred to his notes and read aloud.

“‘She skips over huge sections of the outline, so you skip it, too, but then she expects us to know it for the exam.’

“‘She doesn’t seem to know the information she’s teaching.’

“‘Class was a waste of time. I could’ve just read the textbook.’

“‘I had a hard time following her lectures. Even she gets lost in them. This class was nowhere near as good as her intro course.’

“‘Once she came to class and didn’t teach. She just sat down for a few minutes and left. Another time, she taught the exact same lecture she did the week before. I’d never dream of wasting Dr. Howland’s time, but I don’t think she should waste mine either.’”

That was tough to hear. It was much, much more than she’d been aware of.

“Alice, we’ve known each other a long time, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to risk being blunt and too personal here. Is everything okay at home?”

“Yes.”

“How about you then, is it possible that you’re overstressed or depressed?”

“No, that’s not it.”

“This is a little embarrassing to have to ask, but do you think you might have a drinking or substance problem?”

Now she’d heard enough. I can’t live with a reputation of being a depressed, stressed-out addict. Having dementia has to carry less of a stigma than that.

“Eric, I have Alzheimer’s disease.”

His face went blank. He had been braced to hear about John’s infidelity. He was ready with the name of a good psychiatrist. He was prepared to orchestrate an intervention or to have her admitted to McLean Hospital to dry out. He was not prepared for this.

“I was diagnosed in January. I had a hard time teaching last semester, but I didn’t realize how much it showed.”

“I’m sorry, Alice.”

“Me, too.”

“I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Neither was I.”

“I was expecting something temporary, something you would get past. This isn’t a temporary problem we’re looking at.”

“No, no, it’s not.”

Alice watched him think. He was like a father to everyone in the department, protective and generous, but also pragmatic and strict.

“Parents are paying forty grand a year now. This wouldn’t go over well with them.”

No, it certainly wouldn’t. They weren’t shelling out astronomical dollars to have their sons and daughters learn from someone with Alzheimer’s. She could already hear the uproar, the scandalous sound bites on the evening news.

“Also, a couple of students from your class are contesting their grades. I’m afraid that would only escalate.”

In twenty-five years of teaching, no one had ever contested a grade given by her. Not a single student.

“I think you probably shouldn’t be teaching anymore, but I’d like to respect your time line. Do you have a plan?”

“I’d hoped to stay on for the year and then take my sabbatical, but I hadn’t appreciated the extent to which my symptoms were showing and disrupting my lectures. I don’t want to be a bad teacher, Eric. That’s not who I am.”

“I know it’s not. How about a medical leave that would take you into your sabbatical year?”

He wanted her out now. She had an exemplary body of work and performance history, and most important, she had tenure. Legally, they couldn’t fire her. But that was not how she wanted to handle this. As much as she didn’t want to give up her career at Harvard, her fight was with Alzheimer’s disease, not with Eric or Harvard University.

“I’m not ready to leave, but I agree with you, as much as it breaks my heart, I think I should stop teaching. I’d like to stay on as Dan’s adviser, though, and I’d like to continue to attend seminars and meetings.”

I am no longer a teacher.

“I think we can work that out. I’d like you to have a talk with Dan, explain to him what’s going on and leave the decision up to him. I’d be happy to coadvise with you if that makes either of you more comfortable. Also, obviously, you shouldn’t take on any new graduate students. Dan will be the last.”

I am no longer a research scientist.

“You probably shouldn’t be accepting invitations to speak at other universities or conferences. It probably wouldn’t be a good idea for you to be representing Harvard in that kind of capacity. I have noticed that you’ve stopped traveling for the most part, so maybe you’ve already recognized this.”

“Yes, I agree.”

“How do you want to handle telling the administrative faculty and people in the department? Again, I’ll respect your time line here, whatever you want to do.”

She was going to stop teaching, researching, traveling, and lecturing. People were going to notice. They were going to speculate and whisper and gossip. They were going to think she was a depressed, stressed-out addict. Maybe some of them already did.

“I’ll tell them. It should come from me.”

September 17, 2004

Dear Friends and Colleagues,

Upon thoughtful consideration and with deep sorrow, I have decided to step down from my teaching, research, and traveling responsibilities at Harvard. In January of this year, I was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s disease. While I am likely still in the early to moderate stages of the disease, I’ve been experiencing unpredictable cognitive lapses that make it impossible for me to meet the demands of this position with the highest of standards that I’ve always held myself to and that are expected here.

While you’ll no longer see me at the podium in the lecture auditoriums or busy writing new grant proposals, I will remain on as Dan Maloney’s thesis adviser, and I’ll still attend meetings and seminars, where it is my hope to continue to serve as an active and welcome participant.

With greatest affection and respect,

Alice Howland

THE FIRST WEEK OF THE fall semester, Marty took over Alice’s teaching responsibilities. When she met with him to hand over the syllabus and lecture materials, he hugged her and said how very sorry he was. He asked her how she was feeling and if there was anything he could do. She thanked him and told him she was feeling fine. And as soon as he had everything he needed for the course, he left her office as fast as he could.

Pretty much the same drill followed with everyone in the department.

“I’m so sorry, Alice.”

“I just can’t believe it.”

“I had no idea.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Are you sure? You don’t look any different.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Then they left her alone as quickly as possible. They were politely kind to her when they ran into her, but they didn’t run into her very often. This was largely because of their busy schedules and Alice’s now rather empty one. But a not so insignificant reason was because they chose not to. Facing her meant facing her mental frailty and the unavoidable thought that, in the blink of an eye, it could happen to them. Facing her was scary. So for the most part, except for meetings and seminars, they didn’t.

TODAY WAS THE FIRST PSYCHOLOGY Lunch Seminar of the semester. Leslie, one of Eric’s graduate students, stood poised and ready at the head of the conference table with the title slide already projected onto the screen. “Searching for Answers: How Attention Affects the Ability to Identify What We See.” Alice felt poised and ready as well, sitting in the first seat at the table, across from Eric. She began eating her lunch, an eggplant calzone and a garden salad, while Eric and Leslie talked, and the room filled in.

After a few minutes, Alice noticed that every seat at the table was occupied except for the one next to her, and people had begun taking up standing positions at the back of the room. Seats at the table were highly coveted, not only because the location made it easier to see the presentation but because sitting eliminated the awkward juggling of plate, utensils, drink, pen, and notebook. Apparently, that juggling was less awkward than sitting next to her. She looked at everyone not looking at her. About fifty people crowded into the room, people she’d known for many years, people she’d thought of as family.

Dan rushed in, his hair disheveled, his shirt untucked, wearing glasses instead of contact lenses. He paused for a moment, then went straight for the open seat next to Alice and declared it his by plopping his notebook down on the table.

“I was up all night writing. Gotta get some food, be right back.”

Leslie’s talk ran the full hour. It took an excessive amount of energy, but Alice followed her to the end. After Leslie advanced past the last slide and the screen went blank, she opened up the floor to discussion. Alice went first.

“Yes, Dr. Howland,” said Leslie.

“I think you’re missing a control group that measures the actual distractibility of your distracters. You could argue that some, for whatever reason, simply aren’t noticed, and their mere presence isn’t distracting. You could test the ability of the subjects to simultaneously notice and attend to the distracter, or you could run a series where you swap out the distracter for the target.”

Many at the table nodded. Dan uh-huhed through a mouthful of calzone. Leslie grabbed her pen even before Alice finished her thought and took vigorous notes.

“Yes. Leslie, go back to the experimental design slide for a moment,” said Eric.

Alice looked around the room. Everyone’s eyes were glued to the screen. They listened intently as Eric elaborated on Alice’s comment. Many continued nodding. She felt victorious and a little smug. The fact that she had Alzheimer’s didn’t mean that she was no longer capable of thinking analytically. The fact that she had Alzheimer’s didn’t mean that she didn’t deserve to sit in that room among them. The fact that she had Alzheimer’s didn’t mean that she no longer deserved to be heard.

The questions and answers and follow-up questions and answers continued for several minutes. Alice finished her calzone and her salad. Dan got up and came back with seconds. Leslie stumbled through an answer to an antagonistic question asked by Marty’s new postdoc. Her experimental design slide was projected on the screen. Alice read it and raised her hand.

“Yes, Dr. Howland?” asked Leslie.

“I think you’re missing a control group that measures the actual effectiveness of your distracters. It’s possible that some of them simply aren’t noticed. You could test their distractibility simultaneously, or you might swap out the distracter for the target.”

It was a valid point. It was, in fact, the proper way to do the experiment, and her paper wouldn’t be publishable without that possibility satisfied. Alice was sure of it. Yet no one else seemed to see it. She looked at everyone not looking at her. Their body language suggested embarrassment and dread. She reread the data on the screen. That experiment needed an additional control. The fact that she had Alzheimer’s didn’t mean that she couldn’t think analytically. The fact that she had Alzheimer’s didn’t mean that she didn’t know what she was talking about.

“Ah, okay, thanks,” said Leslie.

But she didn’t take any notes, and she didn’t look Alice in the eye, and she didn’t seem at all grateful.

SHE HAD NO CLASSES TO teach, no grants to write, no new research to conduct, no conferences to attend, and no invited lectures to give. Ever again. She felt like the biggest part of her self, the part she’d praised and polished regularly on its mighty pedestal, had died. And the other smaller, less admired parts of her self wailed with self-pitying grief, wondering how they would matter at all without it.

She looked out her enormous office window and watched the joggers as they traced the winding edges of the Charles.

“Will you have time for a run today?” she asked.

“Maybe,” said John.

He looked out the window, too, as he drank his coffee. She wondered what he saw, if his eyes were drawn to the same joggers or if he saw something entirely different.

“I wish we’d spent more time together,” she said.

“What do you mean? We just spent the whole summer together.”

“No, not the summer, our whole lives. I’ve been thinking about it, and I wish we’d spent more time together.”

“Ali, we live together, we work at the same place, we’ve spent our whole lives together.”

In the beginning, they did. They lived their lives together, with each other. But over the years, it had changed. They had allowed it to change. She thought about the sabbaticals apart, the division of labor over the kids, the travel, their singular dedication to work. They’d been living next to each other for a long time.

“I think we left each other alone for too long.”

“I don’t feel left alone, Ali. I like our lives, I think it’s been a good balance between an independence to pursue our own passions and a life together.”

She thought about his pursuit of his passion, his research, always more extreme than hers. Even when the experiments failed him, when the data weren’t consistent, when the hypotheses turned out to be wrong, his love for his passion never wavered. However flawed, even when it kept him up all night tearing his hair out, he loved it. The time, care, attention, and energy he gave to it had always inspired her to work harder at her own research. And she did.

“You’re not left alone, Ali. I’m right here with you.”

He looked at his watch, then downed the rest of his coffee.

“I’ve got to run to class.”

He picked up his bag, tossed his cup in the trash, and went over to her. He bent down, held her head of curly black hair in his hands, and kissed her gently. She looked up at him and pressed her lips into a thin smile, holding back her tears just long enough for him to leave her office.

She wished she’d been his passion.

SHE SAT IN HER OFFICE while her cognition class met without her and watched the shiny traffic creep along Memorial Drive. She sipped her tea. She had the whole day in front of her with nothing to do. Her hip began to vibrate. It was 8:00 a.m. She removed her BlackBerry from her baby blue bag.

Alice, answer the following questions:

1. What month is it?

2. Where do you live?

3. Where is your office?

4. When is Anna’s birthday?

5. How many children do you have?

If you have trouble answering any of these, go to the file named “Butterfly” on your computer and follow the instructions there immediately.

September

34 Poplar Street, Cambridge

William James Hall, room 1002

September 14

Three

She sipped her tea and watched the shiny traffic creep along Memorial Drive.

OCTOBER 2004

She sat up in bed and wondered what to do. It was dark, still middle of the night. She wasn’t confused. She knew she should be sleeping. John lay on his back next to her, snoring. But she couldn’t fall asleep. She’d been having a lot of trouble sleeping through the night lately, probably because she was napping a lot during the day. Or was she napping a lot during the day because she wasn’t sleeping well at night? She was caught in a vicious cycle, a positive feedback loop, a dizzying ride that she didn’t know how to step off. Maybe, if she fought through the urge to nap during the day, she’d sleep through the night and break the pattern. But every day, she felt so exhausted by late afternoon that she always succumbed to a rest on the couch. And the rest always seduced her to sleep.

She remembered facing a similar dilemma when her children were around two years old. Without an afternoon nap, they turned miserable and uncooperative by the evening. With a nap, they stayed wide awake hours past their usual bedtime. She couldn’t remember the solution.

With all the pills I’m taking, you’d think at least one would have drowsiness as a side effect. Oh, wait. I have that sleeping pill prescription.

She got out of bed and walked downstairs. Although fairly confident it wasn’t in there, she emptied her baby blue bag first. Wallet, BlackBerry, cell phone, keys. She opened her wallet. Credit card, bank card, license, Harvard ID, health insurance card, twenty dollars, a handful of change.

She rifled through the white mushroom bowl where they kept the mail. Light bill, gas bill, phone bill, mortgage statement, something from Harvard, receipts.

She opened and emptied the contents of the drawers to the desk and file cabinet in the study. She emptied the magazines and catalogs out of the baskets in the living room. She read a couple of pages from The Week magazine and dog-eared a page in the J. Jill catalog with a cute sweater. She liked it in sea-foam blue.

She opened the junk drawer. Batteries, a screwdriver, Scotch tape, blue tape, glue, keys, a number of chargers, matches, and so much more. This drawer probably hadn’t been organized in years. She pulled the drawer completely off its tracks and dumped the entirety of its contents onto the kitchen table.

“Ali, what are you doing?” asked John.

Startled, she looked up at his bewildered hair and squinting eyes.

“I’m looking for…”

She looked down at the items jumbled before her on the table. Batteries, a sewing kit, glue, a tape measurer, several chargers, a screwdriver.

“I’m looking for something.”

“Ali, it’s after three. You’re making a racket down here. Can you look for it in the morning?”

His voice sounded impatient. He didn’t like having his sleep disrupted.

“Okay.”

She lay in bed and tried to remember what she’d been looking for. It was dark, still middle of the night. She knew she should be sleeping. John had fallen back to sleep without ceremony and was already snoring. He was a fast sleeper. She used to be, too. But she couldn’t fall asleep. She’d been having a lot of trouble sleeping through the night lately, probably because she was napping a lot during the day. Or was she napping a lot during the day because she wasn’t sleeping well at night? She was caught in a vicious cycle, a positive feedback loop, a dizzying ride that she didn’t know how to step off.

Oh, wait. I have a way to get to sleep. I have those pills from Dr. Moyer. Where did I put them?

She got out of bed and walked downstairs.

THERE WERE NO MEETINGS OR seminars today. None of the textbooks, periodicals, or mail in her office interested her. Dan didn’t have anything ready for her to read. She had nothing new in her inbox. Lydia’s daily email wouldn’t come until after noon. She watched the movement outside her window. Cars zipped around the curves of Memorial Drive, and joggers ran along the curves of the river. The tops of pine trees swayed in the turbulent fall air.

She pulled all of the folders out of the bin marked HOWLAND REPRINTS from her file cabinet. She’d authored well over a hundred published papers. She held this stack of research articles, commentaries, and reviews, her truncated career’s worth of thoughts and opinions, in her hands. It was heavy. Her thoughts and opinions carried weight. At least, they used to. She missed her research, thinking about it, talking about it, her own ideas and insights, the elegant art of her science.

She put the pile of folders down and selected her From Molecules to Mind textbook from the bookcase. It, too, was heavy. It was her proudest written achievement, her words and ideas blended with John’s, creating something together that was unique in this universe, informing and influencing the words and ideas of others. She’d assumed they’d write another someday. She flipped through the pages without being lured in. She didn’t feel like reading that either.

She checked her watch. She and John were supposed to go for a run at the end of the day. That was way too many hours away. She decided to run home.

Their house was only about a mile from her office, and she got there quickly and easily. Now what? She walked into the kitchen to make some tea. She filled the kettle with tap water, placed it back on the stove, and turned the burner knob to Hi. She went to get a tea bag. The tin container where she kept the tea bags wasn’t anywhere on the counter. She opened the cabinet where she kept the coffee mugs. She stared instead at three shelves of plates. She opened the cabinet to the right of that, where she expected to see rows of glasses, but instead it housed bowls and mugs.

She took the bowls and mugs out of the cabinet and put them on the counter. Then, she removed the plates and placed them next to the bowls and mugs. She opened the next cabinet. Nothing right in there either. The counter was soon stacked high with plates, bowls, mugs, juice glasses, water glasses, wineglasses, pots, pans, Tupperware, pot holders, dish towels, and silverware. The entire kitchen was inside out. Now, where did I have it all before? The teakettle shrilled, and she couldn’t think. She turned the burner knob to Off.

She heard the front door open. Oh good, John’s home early.

“John, why did you do this to the kitchen?” she hollered.

“Alice, what are you doing?”

The woman’s voice startled her.

“Oh, Lauren, you scared me.”

It was her neighbor who lived across the street. Lauren didn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry, would you like to sit down? I was about to make some tea.”

“Alice, this isn’t your kitchen.”

What? She looked around the room—black granite countertops, birch cabinets, white tile floor, window over the sink, dishwasher to the right of the sink, double oven. Wait, she didn’t have a double oven, did she? Then, for the first time, she noticed the refrigerator. The smoking gun. The collage of pictures stuck with magnets to its door were of Lauren and Lauren’s husband and Lauren’s cat and babies Alice didn’t recognize.

“Oh, Lauren, look what I did to your kitchen. I’ll help you put everything back.”

“That’s okay, Alice. Are you all right?”

“No, not really.”

She wanted to run home to her own kitchen. Couldn’t they just forget this happened? Did she really have to have the I-have-Alzheimer’s-disease conversation right now? She hated the I-have-Alzheimer’s-disease conversation.

Alice tried to read Lauren’s face. She looked baffled and scared. Her face was thinking, Alice might be crazy. Alice closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“I have Alzheimer’s disease.”

She opened her eyes. The look on Lauren’s face didn’t change.

NOW, EVERY TIME SHE ENTERED the kitchen, she checked the refrigerator, just to be sure. No pictures of Lauren. She was in the right house. In case that didn’t remove all doubt, John had written a note in big black letters and stuck it with a magnet to the refrigerator door.

ALICE,

DO NOT GO RUNNING WITHOUT ME.

MY CELL: 617-555-1122

ANNA: 617-555-1123

TOM: 617-555-1124

John had made her promise not to go running without him. She’d sworn she wouldn’t and crossed her heart. Of course, she might forget.

Her ankle could probably use the time off anyway. She’d rolled it stepping off a curb last week. Her spatial perception was a bit off. Objects sometimes appeared closer or farther or generally somewhere other than where they actually were. She’d had her eyes checked. Her vision was fine. She had the eyes of a twenty-year-old. The problem wasn’t with her corneas, lenses, or retinas. The glitch was somewhere in the processing of visual information, somewhere in her occipital cortex, said John. Apparently, she had the eyes of a college student and the occipital cortex of an octogenarian.

No running without John. She might get lost or hurt. But lately there was no running with John either. He’d been traveling a lot, and when he wasn’t out of town, he left the house for Harvard early and worked late. By the time he got home, he was always too tired. She hated depending on him to go running, especially since he wasn’t dependable.

She picked up the phone and dialed the number on the refrigerator.

“Hello?”

“Are we going for a run today?” she asked.

“I don’t know, maybe, I’m in a meeting. I’ll call you later,” said John.

“I really need to go for a run.”

“I’ll call you later.”

“When?”

“When I can.”

“Fine.”

She hung up the phone, looked out the window and then down at the running shoes on her feet. She peeled them off and threw them at the wall.

She tried to be understanding. He needed to work. But why didn’t he understand that she needed to run? If something as simple as regular exercise really did counter the progression of this disease, then she should be running as often as she could. Each time he told her “Not today,” she might be losing more neurons that she could have saved. Dying needlessly faster. John was killing her.

She picked up the phone again.

“Yes?” asked John, hushed and annoyed.

“I want you to promise that we’ll run today.”

“Excuse me for a minute,” he said to someone else. “Please, Alice, let me call you after I get out of this meeting.”

“I need to run today.”

“I don’t know yet when my day’s going to end.”

“So?”

“This is why I think we should get you a treadmill.”

“Oh, fuck you,” she said, hanging up.

She supposed that wasn’t very understanding. She flashed to anger a lot lately. Whether this was a symptom of her disease advancing or a justified response, she couldn’t say. She didn’t want a treadmill. She wanted him. Maybe she shouldn’t be so stubborn. Maybe she was killing herself, too.

She could always walk somewhere without him. Of course, this somewhere had to be somewhere “safe.” She could walk to her office. But she didn’t want to go to her office. She felt bored, ignored, and alienated in her office. She felt ridiculous there. She didn’t belong there anymore. In all the expansive grandeur that was Harvard, there wasn’t room there for a cognitive psychology professor with a broken cognitive psyche.

She sat in her living room armchair and tried to think of what to do. Nothing meaningful enough came to her. She tried to imagine tomorrow, next week, the coming winter. Nothing meaningful enough came to her. She felt bored, ignored, and alienated in her living room armchair. The late afternoon sun cast strange, Tim Burton shadows that slithered and undulated across the floor and up the walls. She watched the shadows dissolve and the room dim. She closed her eyes and fell asleep.