Among Mayo’s mail comes a letter from the Royal Neurological Hospital. Opening it she reads that an appointment has been made for her to see the in-house speech therapist. A second speech therapist, and a second opinion. Unlike her friend this one takes no prisoners. She dismisses any talk of anxiety as so much mumbo-jumbo. “I assure you,” she says, “that the only thing damaging your throat is MND.” She asks Mayo if swallowing is a problem. Mayo admits that it is. The speech therapist ticks some boxes. Mayo meets Jackson after the appointment at the cafe in the British Museum. He fetches her a bowl of tomato soup.
“That woman made Ming the Merciless seem like Pope John XXIII,” she writes. “According to her the depredations I have already suffered are irreversible. My voice will never return.” She puts her head in her hands. Then she writes: “Without hope what is there?” She has more tests, and another consultation in the Neuromuscular department. Jackson leaves the car in the parking lot under Russell Square. Crossing Southampton Row, a mere hundred metres from their starting point, Mayo suddenly starts gasping for breath and grabs Jackson’s arm. Leaning against the window of an Italian restaurant she writes with shaking hand: “I’m having a panic attack.”
The Consultant is all smiles as he opens his door to admit both Mayo and Jackson. “I have read your book,” he says to the former. “I don’t think there’s a doctor worth his salt who hasn’t....
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