I was born in 1961, in a different country and in very different times. I was born in the city of Leeds, in England, and went to school there in English. I learned to read, write and do arithmetic, though arithmetic was my worst subject, as I have dyscalculia.
I have never actually had a diagnosis, because when I was a child very little was known about dyscalculia But, because I was good at everything else, my teachers thought I wasn’t working hard enough, Two of my four children did get that diagnosis, and received (sometimes) appropriate help at school.
I wrote what follows after taking the standard test for NTBI for the umpteenth time during my rehab. In all, I had to do it about a dozen times, and I had always cooperated fully. But after writing this piece, I gave it to the team to read, and then very consistently refused to do this part of the test, so as not to put myself through it again.
Primary school, Leeds, circa 1969.
Every morning, after playtime, we had mental arithmetic.
“Everyone stand up,” said the teacher, and as one we stood behind our desks.
Some days it was the multiplication tables; sometimes we had to divide or subtract. At least then there was some structure in it and I knew what to expect.
But sometimes they were random questions that the teacher made up on the spot.
She worked her way systematically around the class. Everyone got a question.
If your answer was correct, you could sit down. Otherwise you had to remain standing, and she would continue to fire questions around until no one was left standing.
That’s the way we all learned mental arithmetic.
Except for me.
it is 2017 now, and I don’t think I could work out in my head how many years have passed since 1969. But I still remember what it felt like to be the only one still standing almost every day: the grins of some classmates (though not everyone); the comments I got from the teacher, that were heard and understood by the whole class.
I also remember how, as the questions came closer, the pressure in my head increased and the storm started to get so fierce, so noisy that I couldn’t think, let alone count. Everything just blocked up.
I often couldn’t answer, or just stammered, “I don’t know, Miss.” And then I was sometimes given more time to think, as if that would help. The longer there was to think, the harder it became. And that hasn’t changed in all these years.
In the standard evaluation of stroke patients, there is a cognitive part, which is intended to show the extent to which cognitive skills have been impaired by the brain damage sustained.
Ever since childhood, my life has been dominated by two things: music and word.
No one has yet tested my musical ability, but that holds no terrors for me. When I listen to Beethoven, Bartók or Rachmaninov, I still understand how their complex compositions are put together; how they work and why. And when I listen to my own, much simpler music, I still remember exactly how to play it, although my left hand isn’t cooperating at the moment.
They have, however, tested me for words, albeit in a somewhat simplistic way: you have two minutes to say as many words as you can starting with the letter x. But, of course, not the x.
I am a quite horrified at how difficult that has become.
Once, the doctor said … starting with the letter d, and I immediately shot back with deontological, of which I was inappropriately proud, but it still remains quite difficult.
As the two minutes go by, the pressure to find new words increases, and that always gets me. Perhaps that part of the test is also partly intended to evaluate my stress resistance.
But then, we are suddenly back in 1969 and playtime is over. It’s time for some mental arithmetic now. We always start with a number that ends with a zero; usually 80, 90 or 100, and I have to subtract seven. That’s easy, even for me. Ten minus seven is three. I memorized that as a boy – but as words! I always get that first one right.
But then I need to hold the number that remains (73, 83, 93 …) in my head, which is already getting difficult for me, whilst I subtract seven more. And repeat. And repeat. Two minutes long. I have never learned a strategy for that. I don’t even know if such a strategy exists, at least one that I could use.
The clock keeps ticking.
The pressure rises. It’s getting noisy in my head.
I can no longer think, let alone subtract.
I’m silent.
I stammer something.
That I don’t know the answer.
I used to have to stay standing.
Now I can stay sitting.
It makes no difference.
The feeling is the same.
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