It also leads to what the textbooks refer to as utilization behavior. If a person with serious damage to the frontal lobes stands in a station waiting for his train, he might find himself entering the first train that stops at the platform, for he has an automated sequence of actions associated with train trips and it’s impossible for his brain to interrupt that sequence. If he sees a bed, he might crawl in under the comforter — even though he knows full well that, at this very moment, he and his wife are shopping in Ikea’s bedroom department.
The frontal lobe deficit isn’t so pronounced in teenagers, but if some cherries are sitting in a bowl they’re not supposed to take from, you risk having them eat the fruit without consciously deciding to do so — even if they’re not hungry. If there’s a ball lying on the lawn, you risk having them kick it, even if it isn’t their ball and some glassware’s standing on a table right behind it. It’s an automated sequence of actions, and once in a while the inhibitory mechanism fails.
Last week I tried to explain this to Helena, but she cut me off. “I actually called to hear about Frederik.”
“Helena, it’s all part of how he’s doing. Don’t tell me that now you’re going to say I talk too much about brain research?”
“Of course not.”
But her voice wasn’t convincing. Helena and my colleagues can’t always follow what I say, and sometimes it’s just easier to talk with Andrea and my other new friends in the support group.
On the phone, Helena and I both hesitated, and then she said, “Tell me about it, I want to hear.”
I tried again. “The kids don’t know themselves why they eat the cherries or kick the ball. When they try to explain, they’re full of rationalizations — exactly like people with frontal lobe injuries who refuse to admit they’re ill. It’s what the doctors call confabulation: when someone with brain damage tries to cover the gaps in their train of thought with fantasies they actually believe.”
Helena no longer sounded impatient on her end. “Okay, I can see how that’s interesting. And I can also see how it’s a big part of what you’ve been experiencing during this shitty year.”
“Good, I’m glad to hear it.”
Helena gave a little snort, which meant she was about to say something she thought was funny. “But Mia, can I tell you something?”
“Yes.”
“If you start using the word confabulation as much as you do perseverate and inhibitory mechanism, I’m going to ask Frederik’s doctor for a lobotomy.”
• • •
The rhythmic booming, the shattered trees, and finally the all-embracing flutter when they collide. During recess, I stop in the middle of the stairs to text Bernard on my way down to the teachers’ lounge.
Last night he again requested that we not see each other anymore, but I didn’t feel devastated. I was in a silly Frederikian mood and giddily promised to stay away from the next support group meeting.
My Frederik mood’s persisted till this morning. What harm could come from a single text?
All I write is: Thinking of yesterday. M.
In the hallway in front of the teacher’s lounge, I bump into Niels, a math colleague. He’s a handsome fellow in his thirties with a passionate engagement for the subject, loads of ideas, and a charming laugh. When you first meet him, it’s hard to imagine why neither students nor parents respect him. Yet on three occasions, the principal’s had to find a new math teacher for one of his classes because the parents were up in arms.
And for two of these ravenous, extra-demanding classes, the principal felt I should be the one to take over. (“I know it’s difficult, Mia, but their next teacher has to make it work. And I can tell you, confidentially, that you and Tove are the only ones who fit the bill.”)
For two years I worked unpaid overtime, slaving away at work that Niels had already received a salary for. But when I started hating him, it wasn’t because of the extra work — Frederik was always gone anyway, and Niklas was often playing elsewhere — but because I grew fond of the students. If not for me, they’d have had trouble getting into gymnasium and college, because they never would have learned math. Niels is one of the few people I’ve met who’s made me fall asleep on many a night with the thought that the world would be better off if he were dead.
Yet when we see each other today, he smiles at me. He often acts as if he doesn’t know what we think about him.
“I’ve gotten some of the books,” he says. “I just need the ones from Germany and Norway.”
“Good,” I reply, though I know he’s lying. Of course he hasn’t ordered the books, and he’ll just come up with some new strained excuse about when we’ll see them.
Several eternities ago, I made the suggestion at a math teachers’ meeting that we procure copies of textbooks from the other Scandinavian countries plus England and Germany, so we could see how they go about teaching math. Niels jumped in right away and said he’d make sure to order the books.
We all knew what would happen, but it was me who said, “Tove could do it too.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”
“Or maybe each of us should take a country and try to get the textbooks from there?”
“No, let me do it, I really want to. It’s a great idea.”
We all hesitated, until finally I said, “But Niels, it’s just that back when you promised to look into that course facility, you never did — and then we never went.”
His big happy smile, his enthusiasm. There’s no doubt that he fully believed what he was saying. “I’m really sorry about the slip-up that time.” He cast his eyes downward, and a note of seriousness entered his voice. “There were reasons for that, which I’d just as soon not get into now.” He exchanged a confidential glance with one of the other teachers. “I’d really like to make up for it.”
I could see that the others felt we should let him.
“So you’ll order them then?”
“Yes, of course I will. Definitely. I’m the one saying I want to do it.”
Half a year later, in the days leading up to our next math teachers’ meeting, I began to remind him about it. One day when we were in the coatroom about to put on our jackets, he said, “It’s because you’ve been pressing me like this that I’ve completely lost the desire to do it.”
“So if I hadn’t reminded you, you’d have done it already?”
“Yes, no question.”
“Well then, I’ll leave well enough alone.”
“Thank you. Anyone would lose their motivation with you taking that role for yourself.”
I let his comment slide to keep the peace. But in the following weeks, I pulled each of the other teachers aside and asked if they thought I was too domineering. No one agreed with Niels, and in fact I received a lot of praise. And yet his confabulation made me put a damper on new initiatives.
Of course he didn’t get the books during the subsequent half year either. A few days before the third meeting, when the two of us happened to be alone in the teachers’ kitchen, I said, “Niels, you don’t have to worry about it anymore. I’ll order the books myself.”
Again he became aggressive. “I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t press me.”
We started arguing. “Well if you’d only done what you promised to …”
Yet just a few days later, he showed his sweet, charming, somewhat flighty and befuddled side — the side that everyone who doesn’t know him falls for.