“Uh, yeah,” I tell her, “I hear it.  What about it?”

“Arghhhhh, nevermind!”  Her exasperated tone and subsequent silence have a surprisingly disturbing effect on my nerves.  Why is she so frustrated?  Is it just because she can’t see?  Is she doubtful that she’ll regain her sight?  Is that what’s upsetting her so much?  I mean, she IS in the art profession.  If she can’t see, how can she go on with her work?  I feel her hand squeezing mine and look up from the thin blanket I’ve begun to clench in my hand.  The right side of her face is drooping a bit and she has a look of sheer panic in her eyes.

“Bette?  Baby, are you alright” I ask.

“Hand.um, hand.  Move.no, move.”  Her words seem a labor to get out and I can’t understand what she’s trying to say.  Hand?  What about hand?  Mine or hers?

“Baby, whose hand,” I ask.  “Whose hand are you talking about?  And what about it?”

“Hand.um, doctor.move..hand.”  Her words make less and less sense with every breath she takes.

“Stay calm Baby, I’m going out to get the doctor.”  I say the last few words and I exit the room.  In the main area of the unit, I spot a white coat the call whoever it is.  “Excuse me, doctor?”  The woman turns to look at me and smiles.  He long, flowing, blond curls catch my breath….and her hazel eyes make me gasp.  She’s a doctor?  I didn’t realize someone could be so smart and beautiful at the same time.  What am I thinking?  Bette’s that smart and beautiful.

“What can I do for you?”  Her tone is cheerful, but has little effect on my state of mind.

“My uh.my girl, uhhhh..my partner is having some problems.  She can’t seem to speak right and is saying something about her hand.”  I explain the situation as well as I can in my panicked and shaky voice.  “They’re supposed to be coming to take her for tests.”

“And who’s your partner?”  Her soft, understanding voice finally calms my ragged nerves.

“Bette, Bette Porter,” I tell her.

“Okay, let’s go have a look.”

I walk back into Bette’s room with the doctor in tow.

“Hand.um, hand.no, hand.move,” Bette’s speech seems a little worse than just a minute ago.

“Can you tell me what’s going on,” I ask frantically.  “What’s happening to her?  Does she have some kind of brain damage or something?”  Not giving the doctor enough time to answer, I keep firing off the questions.

“First of all, I need you both to calm down.  My name is Dr. Julie Butler.  I’m the neurologist Bette’s other doctor asked to come in and consult.”

“I wasn’t aware her other doctor asked anyone to consult,” my statement is phrased in a terse tone I didn’t intend.

“My apologies for that, Ms”  Her pause tells me she asking for my name.

“Kennard.  Tina Kennard,” I respond.  “Can you tell us what’s happening?”  My words form just as a tear escapes the corner of my eye.

“I have a small idea of what might be going on, but I’ll have to wait until after the tests are run before I have a definitive answer for you.”  Her answer to my question doesn’t really answer my question and only brings the tension back into my body.  Why can’t she tell me what she THINKS it is?  Why do doctors have to avoid answering the hard questions?  Don’t they go to school so they CAN answer those very questions?  “Why don’t we step outside and let Ms. Porter rest before the nurse comes to get her?”

As we step out into the hall, I have a feeling that Dr. Butler wants to tell me something about Bette’s condition that she doesn’t want Bette to know yet.

To Be Continued…