It was the first time Iâd visited this particular location. Iâd started working for my new employer just four weeks prior and she operated five locations total. In my role as Chief Financial Officer, I was trying to visit at least one new building every week. As was my normal experience, the other, on-location employees were friendly enough, and I relegated myself to a small office right off the lobby. It was not a bad office, at least not once I got the heat going.
Despite it not being a bad office, there was a problemâit was right off the lobby. This locational prompt left residents and visitors alike assuming I was in charge, assuming I actually knew what I was doing. But I wasnât and I didnât. Indeed, the whole purpose of my visit was to gain a better understanding of the operation itself and, at the end of the day, walk out smarter than when I walked in. In the meantime, however, there existed a semi-regular stream of individuals who had questions and/or information they felt I needed.
It started with two gentlemen in wheelchairs. They were amiable enough, and mainly wanted to know who I was and why I was dressed like a banker. I explained my position as the new CFO, which seemed to satisfy them, and I was lucky enough to receive no less than two compliments regarding my choice of dress shirts while they waited for their respective rides. Eventually they departed, leaving me and my Oxford shirt alone with my work in the not-so-bad office.
Then Dr. Who arrived.
Now, as of this writing I donât remember his name so, at the risk of copyright infringement, Iâll refer to him as âDr. Who.â Dr. Who came to the office door asking for someone named Bill. According to Dr. Who, Bill was the owner. I explained that I did not believe Bill was still the owner, and that I believed this because the new owner was, indeed, a woman. Dr. Who seemed a tad dumbfounded by the revelation, and said so, all the while attempting, out loud, to determine the last time heâd visited the facility. I listened politely, of course, but with some distraction. Iâd been in the middle of a pretty cool spreadsheet when Dr. Who arrived and was anxious to return to it. And then he said something, something that couldnât help but capture my attention.
Brain shrinkage.
Now, he used the term as a lighthearted way, as if to explain his own forgetfulness. But it was clear Dr. Whoâs brain was just fine. The brain of one of his patients, however, was not, and he explained that, as of that day, the brain of this particular patient was less than eighty percent of its original size.
Naturally, I freaked out.
My brain can shrink?
He dropped this bombshell but kept rambling about his patient as if he hadnât just delivered the most consequential piece of information I would receive that day. I waited, biding my time until he was ready to finish the lecture, but was forced to intervene less than a minute later.
âUmm . . . excuse me doc, but did you just say oneâs brain can shrink?â
He paused, looking at me as if I had two heads or, in an alternative view, two brains that could shrink.
âOf course.â Initially matter of fact, he now seemed to sense my alarm, and continued cautiously. âBut it doesnât happen until after the age of sixty-five.â
Sixty-five?? I wasnât there yet, but acknowledged internally that the sixty-five horizon was not as distant I would like it to be. I was panicked. What kind of tragedy was waiting to fall upon me? Ignorance, it occurred to me, is truly bliss.
âBut, doc, you know . . . I âm sort of hurtling toward sixty-five. Should I be drinking more water? Eating more vegetables? Should I cut back on alcohol?â I silently prayed it wasnât the latter. I was totally willing to drink more water and/or consume more vegetables, but the idea of cutting back on my alcohol consumption was simply too cruel. How small, I wondered, would my brain have to be for me to say no to a well-crafted Manhattan?
âOh. Okay. Well, donât worry. Itâs mostly genetic. If youâre parents or grandparents were never diagnosed, then youâre probably okay.â
I experienced a sense of relief, which lasted for approximately two seconds. It lasted about two seconds because, I reminded myself, my father died when he was sixty-three and his father died in factory accident in his twenties. Genetically speaking, I could not rely on that particular branch of the family tree to fend off any potential shrinkage.
Dr. Who was still talking, but I wasnât listening. My brain, shrinking or not, was looking for an out. I needed something to counter the potentially devastating condition.
My mother. Yes. My mother!
Sheâs far exceeded the fateful age of sixty-five, as did her mother. Yes. There was, thankfully, a hook on which I could hang my non-shrinkage hopes. I mean, other than the occasional inability to determine her left from her right, my mother was doing better than most people half her age.
I breathed a sigh of relief and realized Dr. Who was still blathering, ostensibly in an effort to soothe my fraying nerves.
âThanks, doc, but I think Iâm good.â I didnât mention that despite a growing sense of calm, I would, in perpetuity, be on the lookout for symptoms of shrinkage, even if I wasnât exactly sure what those symptoms might be. Would I need a cane? Diapers? I didnât know and didnât want to know. Why? Look above for âIgnorance is bliss.â
Finally, Dr. Who, having wrought sufficient havoc, exited, leaving me to my contemplations. Somehow, I was able to get back to the spreadsheet Iâd been so excited about not minutes before, and actually get some work done. No doubt my doom awaited in one form or another, and an unfinished spreadsheet would change nothing.
But I definitely needed a Manhattan.