The Diagnosis

This blog entry is not a feel-good story.  It's the story of how a neurologist informed me that I had been awarded a free, lifetime membership to the Parkinson's club.  I would pay any price, down to my last dime, to cancel my free pass.

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In February of 2012, I confessed to my wife that I was seeing my doctor the next day due to my unusual symptoms, such as stiffness in my right arm and tremors on my right side, usually during extreme stress.  I also told her that on Web MD, my symptoms seemed to be symptoms of Parkinson's disease.  She tried to put on a good face, but she was clearly horrified.  I told her it was probably nothing.

I was lying to myself.  And to Kathy.  It was not "nothing".  It was something.  I just hoped it wasn't fatal.

I saw my doctor the next morning, and told him about the symptoms I had been experiencing.  He did some rudimentary tests that I frankly could have done with the help of my dog, making me wonder why I wasted a co-pay on this appointment.  However, when he was done, he became very quiet, and had a look of concern on his face.  The co-pay wasn't a waste after all.  He finally spoke, with some alarm in his voice, and told me to get an MRI immediately, and recommended a neurologist to see as soon as possible.  In the next breath, he said I needed to be tested for Parkinson's disease, but he also needed to rule out something worse, like Multiple Sclerosis, Lou Gehrig's disease, or a brain tumor.

Awesome! Now I'm completely focused on my death.  At least I have great life insurance.  Hey, my son can go to Harvard with no student loans!

My MRI was scheduled for the following week, but my appointment with the neurologist was almost FIVE WEEKS later.  I was hopeful that seeing the neurologist would be completely unnecessary.

I had never had an occasion where I needed an MRI, so I didn't know what to expect.  The MRI technician could not have been nicer, but warned me that if I was claustrophobic I might have an issue. Of course I told her I wasn't (I had no idea).  I stretched out on the table and put some headphones on (they found some Miles Davis to play), and then in matter of seconds I was completely surrounded by this cylindrical "thing" which was supposed to tell me if I was being given advanced notice of my death.

By the way, I seem to be slightly claustrophobic, because the MRI tube freaked me out.  Who knew?

The next day, the assistant for my doctor gave me the "all clear", meaning I didn't face imminent death.  I was thrilled, obviously.  But then I was overwhelmed by this thought...what is wrong with me then??  I was still having the same symptoms, and they were not improving.  Just as I was being overwhelmed, the assistant called me back to say that my doctor wants me to keep the appointment with the neurologist.

Me:  "But I got the all clear".  Assistant:  "He still wants you to go", with a tone that suggested it was pointless to argue.  Me:  "If you say so".  My brain:  "WTF"?

It was still February.  The appointment was on March 21st!!

Finally, March 21st arrives.  In a bit of foreshadowing, it was a gloomy, drizzly day.  Kathy and I went back to the neurologist's office pretty quickly, and we sat down in front of an old, unimpressive wooden desk reminiscent of a teacher's desk in an old, moldy New York City school.  The only thing missing was a Nuclear Fallout Shelter sign.  The neurologist (I will protect his identity) sat down at the desk and I thought to myself, "this friggin' guy is a neurologist??'  He obviously doesn't spend his money on clothes or a comb.  But I checked him out beforehand, and he was definitely reputable.

He asked me lots of questions about my symptoms, and then performed a series of tests.  Most of that hour is a blur so my memory is actually foggy, but he did tests on my arm strength and leg strength, muscle stiffness, the use of my fingers on both hands, and my reflexes.  The last thing he had me do was to simply walk down the hall.  He left so I could get dressed, and came back a few minutes later.  He closed the door, looked at me, and said:

"You have Parkinson's disease".

I think I just got hit in the face with a Louisville Slugger (I know, I turn everything into a baseball metaphor).  I looked at Kathy, who was white as a sheet, but was surprisingly composed given the news she just heard.

Well, I'm a straightforward kind of guy, so I appreciate that he didn't bother with small talk.  Everybody knows I hate flowery, sugar-coated crap...just give it to me straight.  But I had one question, "what about the MRI?  It came back clean".

"Parkinson's disease doesn't show up on an MRI.  It was to rule out the fatal stuff".

Oh!  I'm not gonna die.  Swell!  I'll just slowly deteriorate until I'm useless.  Then I seriously thought, "maybe I'll light the Olympic flame like Muhammad Ali", the vision of the Champ shaking the torch nearly uncontrollably in 1996 going through my head.

He said the good news was that it was actually better to get it younger because you can hold off the worst symptoms longer.  I zoned out after that...the only words I remember after that were "Michael J. Fox".  I guess he was trying to lift my spirits.  I was just trying not to cry.

What the hell do I do now??

Lifetime membership.  More like a life sentence...or is it?

Job 36:15