Now that I've become more outspoken about having Parkinson's Disease, people have asked a lot of questions, particularly related to my diagnosis. So here's my story:
I squeezed into the tiny exam room. Although I was only 46 years old, I looked like a senior on a cruise, dressed in my green and white striped polyester pantsuit, fresh off the rack from J.C. Penney’s.
I undressed and climbed on the table with my sweaty pre-menopausal body. The 85-degree temperature probably broke a record. I didn’t know if it is the heat or the humidity, but it was certainly hot.
I was oblivious to the sun-shiny day. The mountains in the west were a blur. The birds chirped outside, and I hated them. I wanted to be anywhere else, except in these confined quarters.
Instead, I was at the Neurology Office of Kaiser Permanente in Westminster, Colorado, on May 8, 1996, waiting for the answer as to what ailed me. For nearly six months, my left hand shook. My left arm hung there like a dead animal. I dropped things. People told me I had a blank facial expression. My voice was soft and raspy. Typing on the computer slowed and became punctuated with errors. A typed word such as “home” appeared as “homeeeeeeee” on the computer screen. My fingers grew minds of their own.
Although, I tried not to worry, I secretly hoped this physician would have the answer and prescribe medication that would take care of my medical woes.
When the physician entered the room, I sat up and tried to act alert. She looked more like an attorney than a doctor in her business suit. She was short, slim and appeared to be in her thirties. We both hovered around five feet. Her first name was Mindy, but I knew I wouldn’t be calling her that. I wanted her to be the one with the answer. Dr. Mindy Wiener became my neurologist. I’d had an internist and an OB-GYN, but never a neurologist.
During the prior two months, she administered neurological tests. She had asked me to open and close my hands and tap my feet. She had attempted to push me over from behind. She had requested that I take off my shoes, outstretch my arms, and walk with one foot in front of the other. My body fell hard against the cool tile of the exam room. I failed that test. She scanned my brain with an MRI, zapped my nerves with electrical currents, and then referred me to specialists.
I sat with Dr. Wiener on that hot afternoon as she reviewed my tests and scrutinized the medical reports and X-rays. Her mouth pinched, and brows furrowed.
I distracted myself by looking away at the walls, which were undecorated except for her certificate of residency in neurology from the New England Medical School Hospitals in Boston. The silence was excruciating. When she finally did speak, her words seemed scrambled. I leaned forward and focused to understand.
“I have good news and bad news,” she said. “The good news is that you don’t have a brain tumor, Lou Gehrig’s disease or Wilson’s disease. The bad news is that it appears that you have Parkinson’s Disease.”
Somehow I missed the part about the good news. I didn’t want to have anything to do with any of those dreadful diseases.
Too afraid to ask out loud, I silently questioned: Will I end up in a wheelchair? Will I be able to work until retirement? What about playing in the accordion competition?
I left the land of health and entered into the land of illness, a different country, where I became a permanent resident. I was issued an ID in my wallet that says in big bold letters that I AM NOT INEBRIATED, that I have a medical condition called PARKINSON’S DISEASE, and that it is not contagious.
Dr. Wiener had the answer. It was not the answer that I wanted to hear.
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