Over the past few months, Mother has lost her sense of humor, and when I asked her why, she said, “Because nothing is funny anymore.” She hadn’t been feeling well, thought it was her heart, wondered why she wasn’t getting any better. But he only hears “vagus,” and he says, “Very good! That is your vagus nerve.” It works, and Mother says, “You should go to Vegas,” meaning that he might take his magic trick on the road. “It’s very fast,” he says and then tells her that there’s a nerve on her neck, that if he presses on it, the heart will slow down. He doesn’t answer her, and he takes her pulse. When the pulmonologist walks into the room, Mother asks, “Have you heard? I’m a goner.” Then he says, “What you have is very bad.” He listens to her heart, the lungs filled with tumors. Maybe three months, the internist shrugs.
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