Authors: Gary Braver
GRAY MATTER (5 page)
“Well, it could be several things. It’s possible he’s experiencing some emotional difficulties at home.”
“I can assure you that we’re happily married,” Rachel said defensively. “And if my husband and I have a problem, we make it a point not to discuss it in front of Dylan.”
“I’m sure. But my point is that Dylan has some kind of LD problem.”
“LD?”
“Learning disability.”
“Learning disability?” She uttered the words as if testing a foreign expression.
“He seems to be developmentally delayed. One possibility is that he’s dyslexic. Or he may have some form of ADD—attention deficit disorder. These problems are not uncommon. Twenty percent of all schoolchildren have some form of disability. But it’s something that can be tested for and dealt with very effectively.”
“You mean drugs? Ritalin or whatever?”
“That or other effective drugs. But I think you should consult your pediatrician and look for specialists to evaluate him. Maybe a neurophysician.”
Rachel felt her insides clutch.
Learning disability. Dyslexia. Developmentally delayed. Attention deficit disorder. Ritalin.
In a matter of moments her son had graduated from class clown to a child suffering neurological dysfunctions.
Learning disability. Dyslexia. Developmentally delayed. Attention deficit disorder. Ritalin.
In a matter of moments her son had graduated from class clown to a child suffering neurological dysfunctions.
While she sat there, Rachel’s mind had scrambled for explanations—external realities that she could point to.
The environment.
She had taken every precaution possible. Their first house had been built in 1935, and had tested positive for lead paint. So they had the place stripped of every square inch of old paint—which cost a fortune. Then they had all the asbestos insulation removed from the basement heating pipes and replaced with a nontoxic substitute. She had even tested the house for radon gas, finding it perfectly safe. Although Rockville water came from a
local reservoir, Rachel took no chances and had spring water delivered to the house every two weeks.
She had taken every precaution possible. Their first house had been built in 1935, and had tested positive for lead paint. So they had the place stripped of every square inch of old paint—which cost a fortune. Then they had all the asbestos insulation removed from the basement heating pipes and replaced with a nontoxic substitute. She had even tested the house for radon gas, finding it perfectly safe. Although Rockville water came from a
local reservoir, Rachel took no chances and had spring water delivered to the house every two weeks.
Television.
Even though she had restricted Dylan to maybe an hour or two a day—and exclusively to PBS children’s shows—she would sometimes catch him watching it on the sly. God knows how all the rapid-fire cuts could mess up a child’s brain development. Maybe Dylan had a special susceptibility to all the flash, compromising his powers of concentration. She knew Martin would resist because they already had fights over letting Dylan watch sporting events and comedy shows. “It’s quality time—what fathers and sons do,” he had protested. “Sitting passively in front of a baseball game broken up by two hundred beer and car commercials isn’t quality time,” she had shot back. “If you want some quality time take him to Fenway Park or go in the backyard and play catch.” Two hours after her meeting with Karen Andrews, Rachel had their cable TV service terminated in the family room. Martin grumbled for days.
Even though she had restricted Dylan to maybe an hour or two a day—and exclusively to PBS children’s shows—she would sometimes catch him watching it on the sly. God knows how all the rapid-fire cuts could mess up a child’s brain development. Maybe Dylan had a special susceptibility to all the flash, compromising his powers of concentration. She knew Martin would resist because they already had fights over letting Dylan watch sporting events and comedy shows. “It’s quality time—what fathers and sons do,” he had protested. “Sitting passively in front of a baseball game broken up by two hundred beer and car commercials isn’t quality time,” she had shot back. “If you want some quality time take him to Fenway Park or go in the backyard and play catch.” Two hours after her meeting with Karen Andrews, Rachel had their cable TV service terminated in the family room. Martin grumbled for days.
Looking back, she realized how futile all that ramrod determination now seemed. Because the problem went back before that October morning, before Dylan’s first day at preschool. Before his birth.
It went back to Halloween night of her junior year in college. She was at an all-night party at a friend’s house, and everybody was doing acid. She had been dating a chemistry grad who made his own LSD in the school’s lab. The stuff was easy to synthesize, and a lot cheaper than that sold on the street. But this one night he had introduced her to a variation—acid laced with another drug he had synthesized—the combo, he said, would make sex “cosmic.” The street name was TNT. Like acid, the stuff was psychedelic, turning the bedroom walls into polychrome liquid crystal surfaces. But the real kick was sex: An orgiastic pulsation of light and sound where every physical sensation was amplified into starburst scintillations that climaxed in a supernova explosion.
As she pulled her car into the parking space behind Dr. Rose’s office, the sick irony struck her: She was joining the ranks of other mothers and fathers of LD kids, fluent in the statistics, the lingo, and that antiseptic alphabet soup—ADD, ADHD, LD, FAS, WISC. IQ. MRI. LSD.
And the disorder had its source in her: TNT.
“You can take a seat, Mrs. Whitman. The doctor will be with you in a few minutes,” said Liz, Dr. Rose’s secretary, when Rachel entered the office.
Working to calm herself, she picked up a copy of
Parenting
magazine and thumbed through the pages, trying to focus her mind. It seemed every other story in the magazine was directed at her: “Raising an Eager Reader.” “Baby Games that Teach.” “Hyperactivity Hype?” “How to Help Your Kids Learn Better.” “Great Expectations.”
Parenting
magazine and thumbed through the pages, trying to focus her mind. It seemed every other story in the magazine was directed at her: “Raising an Eager Reader.” “Baby Games that Teach.” “Hyperactivity Hype?” “How to Help Your Kids Learn Better.” “Great Expectations.”
God, let him be okay. I beg you.
Liz opened the door. “The doctor will see you now.”
Rachel followed her down the corridor to the doctor’s office. “Sorry about the wait.” Dr. Rose was a handsome man of about fifty with a simpatico face and large warm exotic eyes.
Rachel tried to read them as she shook his hand.
“Have a seat, please.” When he sat back down behind his desk he picked up a folder from a pile of material. “Well, the results of the brain scan are back.”
Tumor,
whispered a voice in her head.
He’s going to say Dylan has a brain tumor.
whispered a voice in her head.
He’s going to say Dylan has a brain tumor.
The doctor got up and slipped the MRI scan on the light display board.
There were three separate black-and-white negative sheets with sixteen shots on each from different angles. It was shocking to see her little boy rendered as a specimen, stripped to his bones and teeth.
“As I explained the other day, brain scanners can’t see individual cells, nor can they tell if brain cells have been rearranged or are missing. Only tissue samples or an autopsy can tell us that. But the images can tell us if there are anomalous structures or deformities—”
But Rachel cut him off. “Is he okay?”
“Well, there is an anomaly.”
“An
anomaly?
”
anomaly?
”
With his pencil he pointed to an area on the left side of Dylan’s brain. “Neurology is not my specialty, so I consulted with Dr. Gerald Cormier, a neurosurgeon at the Lahey Clinic, and according to his report there appears to be some developmental abnormality in the ventricular system over here.” He pointed to a white area on the left. “It seems that Dylan has slightly dilated ventricles in this area which suggests some maldevelopment of the thalamus, which is deep in the brain in this area.” He moved the pencil to the lower part of the brain scan. “This kind of malformation in this area is associated with the type of learning problems that Dylan has, I’m told.”
Rachel’s eyes flooded with tears. “My God, what does that mean?”
“I’m not really the one to say. But I did ask Dr. Cormier what the prognosis was for Dylan’s cognitive development, and he said that, unfortunately, this kind of underdevelopment usually results in a reduction in learning abilities.”
Rachel let out a groan.
“This really is not my area, but I’ve read that there’s sometimes a compensatory phenomenon,” he added. “When one side of the brain has deficient wiring, it’s been found that the corresponding healthy region in the opposite hemisphere tends to develop more extensive patterns of connections than is normal. There’s no way to tell from the scan, but it’s entirely possible that the right side of Dylan’s brain is developing excessive connections.”
Rachel nodded, knowing that the doctor wanted to put Dylan’s condition in the best possible light.
“If it’s any consolation, both Einstein and the painter Rodin had deficient left-hemisphere language skills, yet they excelled in the right-brain skills as we all know.”
His attempt to make her feel better produced the opposite effect, because she knew in her heart of hearts that Dylan was damaged, and to suggest he might grow up to be a mathematical or artistic prodigy was all the more painful for its improbability.
“How do you think it happened?”
The doctor handed her a box of tissues. “Well, there’s no way of knowing for sure, but since there’s no evidence of head trauma, my guess is that it either happened
in utero
or it’s genetic. Given his medical history, we can pretty much rule out diseases. One possibility is prenatal exposure to environmental toxins which can affect brain development,” he said. “You know, mercury, cadmium, arsenic, lead, or any kind of radiation. As far as you recall, were you ever exposed to any such chemicals while pregnant?”
in utero
or it’s genetic. Given his medical history, we can pretty much rule out diseases. One possibility is prenatal exposure to environmental toxins which can affect brain development,” he said. “You know, mercury, cadmium, arsenic, lead, or any kind of radiation. As far as you recall, were you ever exposed to any such chemicals while pregnant?”
“No.”
“Chemotherapy?”
“No.”
“Did Martin use any pesticides or insecticides to excess that you know of?”
“No.”
“Or longtime exposure to carbon monoxide?”
The question jogged through her. “Do you mean did I try to kill myself?”
“That was not my question, but car exhaust is one form of the gas. Another is a faulty oil burner. Anything like that?”
Rachel shook her head. His questions were cutting closer to the quick. And she wondered if she were projecting the image of someone with a history of mental instability.
“Of course not,” the doctor said, musing over the charts. “How about alcohol or drugs?”
She had sensed the question before it hit the air. “No. I drink very little, and I certainly didn’t while carrying Dylan.”
“Then my guess is that it’s probably genetic since there’s a lot of evidence linking heredity factors to neurophysiological disorders—schizophrenia, depression, stuttering, hyperactivity, alcoholism, and so forth But, once again, I’m not the man to ask. You really have to see a pediatric neurologist.”
Silence filled the room as the doctor waited for her to respond. “Rachel, are you all right?”
She nodded ever so slightly, thinking how there was only one thing more devastating than discovering that your much-wanted child has a brain disorder: the thought that you may have caused that disorder. In a low voice, she said, “I took drugs when I was in college.”
There! It was out.
Dr. Rose rocked back in his seat. “I see. And what did you take?”
“LSD laced with TNT,” she said. “On and off for about two years.”
“And you’re wondering if that caused brain damage in your son.”
She nodded.
“From what I know, there’s no evidence that LSD is a mutagen—that it causes chromosomal damage that could affect unborn children. There were rumors aloft in the sixties, but none was ever found. But I don’t know what this TNT is.”
“It’s also known as trimethoxy-4-methyl-triphetamine, TNT to street people.” The name was etched in her brain.
Rachel tried to push back the tears as she reached into her handbag and pulled out a
Newsweek
article from three weeks ago. As was typical of newsmagazines its cutesy title belied the horrors: “Acid Kickback.” As if they were reporting about heartburn. She handed the sheets to the doctor.
Newsweek
article from three weeks ago. As was typical of newsmagazines its cutesy title belied the horrors: “Acid Kickback.” As if they were reporting about heartburn. She handed the sheets to the doctor.
He adjusted his reading glasses. “‘New study shows evidence linking TNT-tainted LSD and genetic defects in users’ offspring.’” Then he read the rest of the piece to himself as Rachel sat there slowly dying.
For years, she had rested easy in the knowledge that no evidence had been found that LSD was a mutagen. Then
Newsweek
and the wire services had
picked up a recent study by a Yale research group that set off an alarm in Rachel’s soul. The chief culprit was a family of synthetics chemically described as tryptamines, the ugliest of which was TNT, a substance hundreds of times more potent than mescaline. It was what Jake Gordon had synthesized and added to his acid back in school. According to the report, the stuff was genetically toxic, entering the reproductive cells of the female users and causing alterations in the ova, resulting in deformities in children. What startled Rachel was the figure: sixty-five percent of habitual female users of TNT-laced acid gave birth to children with cancers and birth defects. Two babies in the study were born without brains.
Newsweek
and the wire services had
picked up a recent study by a Yale research group that set off an alarm in Rachel’s soul. The chief culprit was a family of synthetics chemically described as tryptamines, the ugliest of which was TNT, a substance hundreds of times more potent than mescaline. It was what Jake Gordon had synthesized and added to his acid back in school. According to the report, the stuff was genetically toxic, entering the reproductive cells of the female users and causing alterations in the ova, resulting in deformities in children. What startled Rachel was the figure: sixty-five percent of habitual female users of TNT-laced acid gave birth to children with cancers and birth defects. Two babies in the study were born without brains.
“Did you know for certain it was laced with TNT?”
“Yes.”
If the doctor wondered why, he didn’t ask. As all acidheads knew, TNT-LACED acid heightened sexual experience. For better orgasms, Rachel’s son was now brain damaged.
“I’ve not seen the studies, so I can’t tell you if what you took caused Dylan’s problems. And ultimately it may not be possible to tell. But frankly, Rachel, I’m not sure just how useful it is to know that. You could end up consuming yourself with guilt.”
She nodded.
I
already am
.
I
already am
.
“Have you discussed this with Martin?”
“Yes.” She had not expected the question. Reflexively, she lied, knowing how much worse it would sound if she had kept it from him. Although Martin knew that she had taken drugs in college—something she had confessed years ago—he did not know about TNT. Maybe someday she’d tell him. But how do you admit to your husband that you may have ruined your only child?
“Well, I think the important thing is to decide on how best to help Dylan with his learning process—working with his school to get the best programs for him. I’ll be happy to give you a referral to pediatric neurologists.” He wrote some names on a notepad and handed them to her.
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