If you follow my posts then you believe my husband has Parkinson's. I told you he had Parkinson's. It was a given except that there are no givens in this life. But, if not that then what? I read the Mayo Clinic site regarding Parkinson's. I began wrapping my mind around that diagnosis. The road ahead was named if not yet mapped. An appointment with a neurologist in a nearby town was upcoming. I knew, just knew for sure (arrogance is never far from me) that I would wheel my husband in, the neurologist would do the neurological thing and the road ahead would be named and mapped. Remember? I was going to write a book titled, "Parkinson's Sucks"? I believe that premise is secure though I will not be writing the book. Kudos to any of you who believe I would have written the book, You are a testament to the power of positive thinking. But, I digress.
We drive the thirty plus miles to see the male neurologist who was, by several accounts, going to be the cat's meow of neurologist's. I, at least, was excited. My husband, in pain and deep into the pain medication plus never one for excitement, simply wanted to get it over with and crawl in a hole.
I, according to a professional, am given to occasional histrionics which means, in plain language, no moment is a dull moment with me. Every fire is a five alarm fire and every potential for seeing "the professional" means success is just around the corner. The description I gave is an example of histrionics. I was just histrionic about histrionics. Oh my! Well, ADHD and histrionics not withstanding we arrive at the office of the neurologist, sign in and the rules of engagement change immediately. We are not going to be seen by the miracle worker, the highly recommended sure thing guy. We are seeing a woman neurologist whom no one mentioned at all. I stay quiet. My husband hasn't a clue. He is hoping that I do not jam his foot into the doorway of the room we are entering. He is hostage to me as I push him along in the office wheelchair. He is hostage to me all the time now. I guess most folks would say I am hostage to his inability to walk or think well. Every story has two sides. My husband has always been as immune to being taken hostage as anyone I have known and now he is at the mercy of my care-taking. He appreciates it but it is an unnatural alliance for us. I have managed to chase another squirrel...
The woman neurologist appears in the doorway of our room. She is petite, tan, dressed in black and intense. Plus, she, is quick witted, sharp tongued, given to quick, short movements of her body. Within seconds we are peppered with questions about our reason for being in her office. She darts back and forth from the paperwork she has in front of her to glaring at us while asking what makes us think my husband has Parkinson's Disease in the first place, who told us he had Parkinson's, what evidence do we have and from whom.
We had come for answers, wisdom, direction and instead we were met with the odd sensation that perhaps we had jumped down the same rabbit hole as Alice in Wonderland and immediately encountered a wicked queen who was shocked to see us in her realm. I answered question after question although I felt disoriented and then incredibly angry and was ready to roll my dear husband out of that wicked queen's office with my head thrown back in a haughty good-bye. But just as I was building up to our grand exit, she and I had a moment. Woman to woman kind of moment. A sharp exchange of words and an epiphany. She was not a wicked queen and we were not down the rabbit hole. She knew immediately that Parkinson's was not the correct diagnosis but she did not say it. In that moment of clarity she and I connected, the questions became cohesive and the road was renamed and began to be mapped. The woman neurologist was perfection. The day was saved. Glory!
What? Oh, the diagnosis...lumbar stenosis and frontal lobe dysfunction of some undefined type. She believes my husband's back was hurt quite some time ago and over the past few years has completely disabled him. She wonders if he has had a stroke or mini-strokes due to other symptoms she identified. She knows he is in extreme pain and encourages me to keep him medicated at a level where the pain is negligible. We are to go for a scan of his spine and his brain. She got absolutely excited because she believes there will be an evident problem with his back and, in that case, believes she can help him.
The saga of being home with him and care-taking is a saga for another day. It is difficult for both of us. Only difference is that he is stoned on highly effective pain meds. Would I trade places with him? No! He is in a tough spot...an incredibly tough spot. And, I am his care-taker. Poor man! He can't get a break!
Well, that's my story and I'm sticking to it. More will be revealed. I hear Sonny and Cher singing "The Beat Goes On" way back in a corner of my mind. I am so happy I am not hearing John Denver singing. What was up with that dude anyway?
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