Does the leak always start when the rain begins?
Where do you see the first signs of the leak and has that changed over time?
Al knows how water behaves. He knows it can travel twelve or fourteen feet across a pipe or beam of wood before dripping into a puddle, so the puddle’s location doesn’t necessarily correspond to where the water came in. He looks for patterns over time. The more he learns, the more specific his questions become. History has made him a detective.
Have you ever repaired the roof?
What exactly have you done?
Does the water drip from the ceiling or down the wall?
Does it only leak when the wind blows?
If the leaks correlate with wind, it could be that something outside has come loose or broken, and the problem might not involve the roof at all. If a repair has been made, he wants to know what materials were used, when, and whether the neighbor’s house is similar and if she’s had any water problems. Only after finding out all he can does Al take a hose to the roof to imitate a rainstorm and duplicate the problem.
Al’s diagnosis frequently surprises the homeowner. Windows are often the culprits; people leave them open or they’re not properly caulked. Clogged gutters are frequent offenders; if water doesn’t drain properly, it can come in through shingles or siding. Wood can rot in the valleys or low points of the roof. Many times, Al has put his finger right through rotten wood that’s let the rain in.
Al asks about a leaky home like a curator asks about a fading manuscript. He knows it is a vulnerable thing, exposed to the elements against the relentless march of time. He wants to know what it’s been through and how it’s been handled. He finds clues in the past.
Al takes immense pride in his questioning. “I love it,” he told me, “because I like helping people solve their problems. It’s as simple as that.”
Challenge the Expert
Gardner, Miller, and Darby are all experts. They put their curiosity and their knowledge to work by asking on-the-money questions that help them identify and treat a problem.
The expert you’re dealing with could be a doctor or a roofer, a high-priced consultant or a friend down the street. But even if they have far more experience than you’ll ever have, be prepared to ask them about their diagnosis. How did they reach it? What is it based on and what is the prognosis? Ask about their process, their experiences in similar situations, and your options, risks, and next steps. Questioning an expert can be daunting and difficult. But often it’s necessary. I know it’s not easy because I’ve been through it, very close to home.
What are you telling me?
What does this mean?
What aren’t you telling me?
My mother hadn’t been feeling well for a while. She hadn’t been happy with her doctor, either. He seemed dismissive of her complaints and suggested her problem was indigestion or just changes that come with age. He didn’t ask whether the sensation corresponded to meals, how it affected her digestion or what was different from how she’d felt in the past. Frustrated and angry, Mom found another doctor who questioned her thoroughly, listened carefully, and ordered tests.
I was on vacation when I spoke to Mom on the phone a couple of weeks later. She sounded fine at first, her usual assertive self. But after a few minutes, she took a breath. Now, don’t worry, she said, but she’d gotten some bad news. The tests were back. She had ovarian cancer.
Before I could even react, she said the doctor was great; he had already scheduled surgery and she’d be going in a few weeks, shortly after I was back. Then there would be chemotherapy. She had confidence in her doctor, she said. Things would be fine.
Life had always been a roller coaster with my mother. She was smart, quick, always sure of herself, profane—there wasn’t a swear word she didn’t use—and the most opinionated person I’ve ever met. It didn’t matter if she was speaking to a teacher or a plumber; she judged everyone and everything. She referred to herself with pride as the “toughest broad on the block.” She bragged about her stubborn independence, which set the tone for just about every conversation she had.
Mom came through the surgery pretty well, though when the nurses came by to get her up and walking, she barked them out of her room. She’d get up when she was good and ready, she said, and she wasn’t ready. This was not going to be easy. The doctor reported that he was pleased with the surgery. He’d removed as much of the cancer as he could. He wasn’t the warmest guy on the planet and could be abrupt. During rounds he was in fast, out fast. But he had a solid reputation as a surgeon and, most important, Mom loved him. She called him “Dr. Blue Eyes.”
But we had questions for the doctor. Lots of them.
What lies ahead?
Which chemo drugs will be most effective?
How will Mom feel?
What side effects should we expect?
What is life going to be like during treatment?
What are her chances of beating this?
Getting answers out of Doctor Blue Eyes was agonizing. He never had much time and he didn’t especially like to talk. When he did, he focused on the clinical parts of the process. We were frustrated. One afternoon shortly after the surgery, I stopped Dr. Blue Eyes in the hallway. Standing a few doors down from Mom’s room, we spoke in low voices. Short questions prompted short answers. I was tired and anxious. I recall the conversation going something like this:
“Where do you think this is headed?”
As he’d said before, the surgery had gone well. Chemo would be next. He’d be monitoring her closely.
“But … what should we expect?”
“Every patient is different,” he said.
“I understand that,” I responded, “but you must have some idea of what this is going to look like.”
“You can’t predict.”
I didn’t want him to predict, just to tell us what Mom was up against and how he felt it would play out, based on his experience and her condition.
I turned the question around.
“Look, if this were your mother, wouldn’t you want to know? Wouldn’t you be asking these same questions?”
The doctor took a breath and considered for a moment. He spoke slowly and deliberately.
“Typically, patients will go through cycles,” he said. “Surgery and the first chemotherapy give her some breathing room.”
“How much?” I asked.
“Usually eighteen months or so. But then the cancer can return.”
“Then what?”
“We try another round of chemotherapy and see how that works. Generally, that knocks the cancer down for another six months or so.
“And?”
“We keep going. We find the drug that works best. Ideally, we manage the disease like other chronic illnesses.” He said that the impact of the chemo often diminishes over time.
“How long can this go on?” I asked.
He hesitated. “The most common is about four years. But there are exceptions. It can go well. Some patients can live very long lives.” We hoped Mom would be one of them.
That little Q&A with Dr. Blue Eyes still plays in my head. I had done some research and I knew generally what we were up against. But I could tell this was going to be even harder than we had anticipated. We needed the doctor’s insight. We wanted to know what he knew. We also wanted to make clear that we were totally engaged and expected to be fully informed. This had to be a partnership and we were entitled to ask.
What’s happening?
How do you know?
Have you seen this before?
What else aren’t you telling us?