![]() ![]() ![]() It took me another six months to schedule an appointment with a new doctor. That my inability to keep time had cost me an A.D.H.D. ![]() It took me a few seconds to remember that I had booked a consultation with an attention deficit hyperactivity disorder expert, as a prelude to being tested for the condition. When I did find my phone that Tuesday and looked at its screen, I felt a familiar rock hammer of dread: Green missed-call notifications cascaded down the screen, all from a number I didn’t recognize. On a day like this, a dozen people could be expected to stream in and out of the apartment, bestowing lipsticky besitos, having dinner, a coffee, a cocktail, a dessert. In the living room, my grandmother watched a syrupy telenovela. In the corridor-style kitchen, with the Univision news blaring, my mother checked on the pernil roasting in the oven, while my sister stood over the sink, packing Bustelo into a metal cafetera. I wandered my parents’ apartment in Hamilton Heights in Manhattan one Tuesday afternoon, in search of my phone. ![]()
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