According to the doctor, I weigh 19 pounds. She guesses my physical age at about three months. The pediatrician smiles and talks to my wife about my statistics as if I'm not there. I'm lying nearly naked on the scale, like a Thanksgiving turkey, while my wife, daughter, and the entire doctor's office staff looks on.
"You can talk to me, doctor, I'm perfectly capable of understanding you." The words come out crisp clear, although in that high chipmunk voice that I've come to hate so much. If I have to be here, I'm grateful that we have a morning appointment. I've found that toward the end of each day, my tongue feels thick, and it's almost impossible to talk. "And would someone PLEASE cover me up?"
By the look on the doctor's face, I'm guessing that they don't see too many Age Regression Virus patients in this office. She actually jumps a bit when I speak, and then gets quite red. Two nurses or office workers across the room can't keep from staring at me, before looking at each other and breaking out into fits of giggles. The doctor, a young boyish-looking woman in a traditional white lab coat, silences them with icy glare.
"Of course, I'm so sorry." The doctor covers me up with a small towel. I concentrate on lowering my legs, and I succeed for a moment, then my knees pop up again and the towel comes up with my feet exposing all that I'm trying to hide. She notices immediately, and tucks the edge of the towel under my backside so that everything is covered. "You're one of the first Virus patients we've seen in this office. The people we've treated were all considerably, ahh," she stumbles, searching for the right word. "Bigger," she finished, satisfied that she'd found the right expression.
She's finally talking to me now; my wife stands behind the doctor peering over her shoulder. My nine-year-old daughter remains seated along the wall, looking bored.
"How are you adjusting Mr. Tinley?" she asks, sincerely it seems, looking directly into my eyes.
How am I adjusting? What a question! How does anyone adjust to something like this? It would be better if I were a quadriplegic; at least then I'd be treated with a little respect.
A week ago, when I bounced, my wife and daughter tried to treat me with some measure of dignity, but now I feel more like a pet, a little wet obligation to be lugged from place to place, than a husband and father. It is true that they take care of all of my needs, but they've also started making all of my decisions.
Unless I make a fuss, my wife chooses what I'm going to wear, how much retched formula I must choke down at feeding time, and how I will spend my time. Lately she's been dictating when I get a bath, and when I go to bed. She's even started putting me down in the morning and afternoon for naps. Although I fall asleep the moment she puts me into the bassinet, I bitterly resent being told when I must rest.
I think about the doctor's question, then I ponder the fact that I'm trapped like this forever. My life is now a never-ending series of diaper changes, sink baths, and bottle feedings. I can't help but laugh at the absurdity of the question. It starts as a little giggle, then turns into a genuine belly laugh, a high pitched chortling sound that gets everyone's attention. Involuntarily, my legs kick, and my arms convulse. The towel that the doctor has draped over me to protect my dignity falls to the floor.
People are drawing near, I see huge faces staring down on me:
my wife, my daughter, the doctor, and strangers that work in the
office. They stare in wonder the naked little baby on the scale
who can't stop laughing.