Chapter 2 - THE MEMORY DRILLS
Dr. Maya Patel called Claire back that evening.
She was Emily’s pediatric neuro-oncologist.
She confirmed:
Emily had asked to speak privately during the last appointment.
That was normal.
Ten-year-old patients were often given age-appropriate private space to discuss:
symptoms,
fear,
home life,
questions they might not ask around adults.
Emily told Dr. Patel:
Grandma tests my memory.
Grandma gets upset if I say “I don’t know.”
Grandma makes me smell things and say what they remind me of.
Grandma shows me clothes from before treatment.
Grandma says new answers do not count if they are different from my old answers.
Claire closed her eyes.
“Did she tell you about the scoring?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t someone call me immediately?”
“We did.”
The care coordinator had left a message that afternoon.
Claire had been in a work meeting.
Then came home to:
the torn cardigan.
Dr. Patel said:
“We were going to ask you to stop the home drills until neuropsychology reviewed them.”
Claire’s heart dropped.
“Did my mother know that?”
“Yes.”
Margaret had been in the room before Emily requested private time.
Afterward Dr. Patel told both adults:
No informal memory testing at home.
Do not repeatedly quiz Emily.
Support routines.
Let the neuropsychologist guide cognitive rehabilitation if needed.
Margaret argued.
She said:
retrieval strengthens memory.
Dr. Patel replied:
sometimes.
But:
fatigue,
stress,
word-finding difficulty,
attention variability
could all make a child perform worse under repeated pressure.
Then Claire asked:
“Was Emily losing memory?”
“Not in the way Margaret is describing.”
Emily had:
normal post-treatment fatigue,
slower retrieval on some tasks,
occasional word-finding problems,
and patchy memory around hospital periods.
None of that established:
progressive loss of identity.
Then Dr. Patel said something Claire hated.
“Children also change because they are children.”
Emily was ten.
Her favorite food could change.
Her best friend could change.
Her interests could change.
A new answer was not automatically a damaged answer.
Then Claire asked:
“Where did my mother get this idea?”
Dr. Patel did not know.
But Margaret had repeatedly used one phrase:
COGNITIVE ANCHORING.
It was not part of Emily’s treatment plan.
Claire searched the house.
Margaret had been staying in the guest room several nights a week since Emily came home from radiation.
In the bedside drawer was a binder.
Title:
COGNITIVE ANCHORING — EMILY.
Inside:
articles,
rehabilitation handouts,
notes from podcasts,
printed caregiver forum posts.
Some legitimate.
Some general.
Some about:
stroke recovery,
traumatic brain injury,
older-adult memory impairment.
Not pediatric oncology.
Margaret had blended them.
One highlighted sentence:
Repeated retrieval of autobiographical memories may strengthen access pathways.
Below it Margaret wrote:
USE CLOTHING / SMELL / MUSIC AS CUES.
Then another article said:
Do not overcorrect errors; stress can impair retrieval.
Margaret had not highlighted that.
Claire turned pages faster.
Then found a weekly target:
GOAL:
20/20 PRE-ILLNESS FACTS WITHOUT PROMPTS.
There was no clinician signature.
No hospital logo.
No medical order.
Margaret had invented the goal.
Then Claire found a small digital recorder.
She pressed play.
Emily’s voice:
“I don’t remember.”
Margaret:
“Think.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
Silence.
Then Margaret again:
“What did Grandpa call you when you were five?”
“I don’t know.”
“Button.”
Emily crying:
“I said I don’t know.”
Margaret:
“And tomorrow you won’t.”
Claire shut it off.
The recorder held twenty-six sessions.
May you like
The next mystery was not whether Margaret had been doing this.
It was why.
